Consummation
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Since TNT decided to end Witchblade with Concobar in a coma, Gabriel possessed, and the white bulls and Jake totally unadressed. I just had to fix it.
1. Prolog

This is just the prolog. More should be up by next week. The more reviews I get the more motivated I'll be to finish faster, Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

All the characters are not mine they belong to Top Cow and TNT respectively. Please do not copy or reprint this story without my permission . . . yadda yadda yadda . . . you know the drill.

Prolog:

Gabriel watched, horrified, as Sara, impaled by her own weapon, begged for help.

"Gabriel," she gasped, "Help me."

Gabriel heard his own voice, somehow perverted, answer her coldly "Sara, Please."

"Oh, God . . ." Sara moaned.

Finally she realized it wasn't him speaking. Finally she saw how desperate her situation was. Finally she's be able to start fighting it. He didn't know whether or not to be comforted by that thought. But comfort could come later; right now he was as entranced by the dram going on before him as he was enraged and distraught over his sudden, inexplicable, possession by the ghost in the machine who happened to be Kenneth Irons when he was at home. 

"Oh, no," Irons said with horrible relish.

"What did you do with Gabriel?"

"He's in here somewhere," Irons said casually.

__

'I'm sorry Sara,' he tried with all his heart to say. But all his heart wasn't enough and as Gabriel watched the horrible play between two arch rivals. It reminded him, somewhat, of watching a drive in movie. The picture was far away, the color was crappy, the sound was bad and everything was, in general, fuzzy. But that agony didn't last long, Irons reached for the gauntlet that was pinning Sara to the wall and pulled it out. Sara gasped. Irons screamed. And Gabriel felt powers much greater than him wash over his consciousness and soul. Then there was only cold and light.

A warm hand touched his face and Gabriel opened his eyes. "Gabriel," Sara said, drawing him back to reality. He saw everything clearly and when Sara spoke her voice, though soft and kind, was not muffled by distance. "Hi."

"Um," he said. It was a wonderful sensation, speaking and having the words you wanted to say come out of your mouth. "Hi."

She smiled, and reached out to help him up. He was confused, the last he knew she'd been impaled, but she seemed fine. And Kenneth Irons had been there, but now he wasn't. Nothing made sense but those memories were to horrifying to have been made up. "Ah, did what I think, um, just happen . . . just happen?"

She offered him a noncommittal look, "Depends on what you think just happened." 

That was a fairly good answer, far better than, 'you were possessed by an evil multi-millionaire and stood by laughing as I bled to death.' Gabriel nodded and accepted it.

"I think I don't feel so good."

Her smile just kept getting bigger. She was glad to be alive, glad he was alive. "Yeah, there's been a virus going around. You should probably get some rest."

The way she said that, Gabriel could tell it was a joke. He really didn't want to know why it was funny. "Yeah, sure."

"Yeah," she said softly, choking back a joys sob.

Gabriel started to get up but felt a wave of dizziness and thought better of it for a moment. Then he felt Sara's arm on his and realized that she was going to lift him up if he couldn't do it himself. "I'm glad you made it back," he said. He didn't want there to be a world without Sara. That was truly the stuff of nightmares.

"Yeah," She said, "Me too." Then she lifted him to his feet and they walked out of the back room. But before they left Gabriel reached up to turn out the light, hyper-energy efficiency being an unfortunate side affect of having been raised in the 80's. And as he reached for the chain he saw it: a scar, two circles overlapping. There was a moment of terror as Gabriel realized that that scar belonged to Kenneth Irons, which meant that there must have been some of Irons left in him. And as in old legends, speaking of the devil made him appear. Gabriel was suddenly shoved back into the drive in movie theater and watched, with horror, as Irons used his body to follow Sara.

_'No,' _Gabriel would have moaned if he could have spoken. _'God, no.'_

But God didn't move to save him.


	2. Cidevant

****

Cidevant

Sara Pezzini had never been the type of girl to dream about her wedding. It had come up, of course, in games little girls played on the playground, writing down lists of numbers and colors and names of boys in their grade, counting off and striking out potential grooms and bridesmaids colors and honey moon locations, and types of cars, until Sara's life had been neatly laid out for her by random chance. Of course, no matter how bizarre those games turned out (and Sara's games usually turned out very, very odd) she never ever dreamed that her wedding would be the kind of thing to show up on the front page of the human interest section of the New York Times.

"This is horrible," she said, resting her head on Conchobar's shoulder and staring out into the amazing sapphire blue waves of the Hawaiian coast. If her wedding was going to be bizarre, her honeymoon might as well be normal, and so the hospital pulled some strings and booked them a two-week rehabilitation program in Hawaii. Sure, she and Conchobar were staying in a hospice across the street from the Hospital, where he spent almost eight hours a day in intensive rehab as Sara did the normal tourist stuff alone. And then at night he always was asleep before eight p.m., so she went out again and played the vigilante, not because she was fighting a particular crusade, but because it felt wrong not to be fighting. Four idyllic days had passed that way and four more were held in promise when the letter came from Danny. It was sealed with a smirk.

"Le'me see," Conchobar said, reaching over and taking the newspaper clipping from her hand. When he saw it he actually laughed which, Sara was sure, all her friends in New York were doing at that very moment. "'Hospital Romance: Coma patient weds cop who saved his life.' Tha's a pretty picture of ya Sara, not as pretty as ya were, but still pretty."

"How on earth . . ." Sara sighed, "Who's quoted in that article?"

"Wanna see who the dirty scoundrel tha' ratted ya out is?" Her husband asked the most magnificent twinkle in his eye. 

"Danny, damn him, he was the only one with a camera, he must have sold the pictures."

"He's not mentioned," Conchobar said as he read the article with an impish grin on his face, he looked like he would break out into laughter at any second. "It just says, a friend of the bride said, quote 'This wedding was just meant to be. It was fate.'"

"Well," Sara said, nuzzling closer to her husband. "That's true."

He moved his arm, pulling her closer to him. He kissed the top of her head, taking a moment drink in the smell of her hair, before looking back to news clip. "Helen Carter, an attending nurse, said quote 'It's like a miracle, like a movie. It was the most touching thing I've ever seen.'"

"Oh, I bet she called the paper," Sara sighed. "She balled through the entire thing."

"Tha's right," Conchobar said with a laugh. "Oi, they mentioned that I'm a musician. I should call Sue 'n see if sales 'ave gone up."

"Sue?" Sara asked her voice was cool with a teasing jealousy as she pulled herself away to look at the man she'd married after having spoken to him only twice.

Conchobar laughed, "Me agent, she's old and ugly."

"Good," Sara said, pronouncing the word with cool precision before nuzzling back into her husband's arms. Her husband . . . this was so right. 

"But," he said as he stroked her hair. "Even if she were Miss America, I wouldn't be tempted. You are . . . there aren't words for what you are."

"There is a word, Yours. I'm yours."

* * *

Gabriel Bowman was surly in some Buddest conception of hell, they after all, accommodated every imaginable torment. He couldn't think clearly, he could barely see or feel anything, he was only half-alive, if that. And no one could see it, that was the worst part. Some force was pushing his essence aside at will. Someone else was being him, or rather someone else was being themselves in his body. And, if Gabriel was honest with himself, he knew who it was.

Kenneth Irons had taken over his body about a week ago after Gabriel had been lured into checking out CyberFoust.com by a girl who claimed to be a purchaser for an Italian museum of passion. He should of known better, blondes like that don't work for museums, especially in Italy. 

Blondes like the one lying across from him on the bed didn't usually work for museums either. They didn't usually go to museums. They didn't usually know how to spell the word museum . . . and this one was no exception. Gabriel looked at her through his own eyes, even though it seemed like he was looking at her from very far away, and felt more week and powerless than he'd ever felt before. He hadn't wanted to sleep with this girl, god . . . he didn't even know her name. But all night he'd watched as he, or Irons seduced her, lulled her into a drunken stupor and then slept with her. Gabriel told himself it wasn't date rape, but he couldn't quite believe it.

And then it was over. The boxed-in, unreal, caged torment he'd been in vanished and he was himself, in his body, lying next to a beautiful girl who's name he didn't know and who he'd just raped. Gabriel just traded one hell for another.

* * *

Ian Nottingham watched his master very carefully. Something was different, something was terribly wrong. Irons had always been one to take pleasure wherever and whenever he could get it. Nottingham would never had called his master a hedonist, for such a classification seemed base and unwarranted, but a utilitarian, yes, Kenneth Irons was definitely that. He saw an end and worked solely for it. His end was life eternal, life everlasting, and a life to be the envy of every man. He usually reached his end. But Irons as he was now seemed more cautious and limited. There were no more beautiful women, no more surreys or rendezvous. Kenneth Irons was all business, and when he wasn't doing business he retired into his room alone, saying nothing.

Ian knew that his master's social life was his own, he knew that pleasures could become dull, he knew that being dead for several months changes a person, so this new disinterest in a plethora of pleasures was not overly concerning. What was unusual was the way he would become distracted, sometimes during the middle of very important meetings, he would develop a somewhat malicious smile and then excuse himself, usually in a rather distracted way, and leave Ian to make up an explanation. Ian had no qualms with lying for his master, and he did not feel the need to even understand why his master needed the lies, but part of him was hurt that Irons did not trust him enough to tell all. It was the hurt, more than the behavior that made Ian suspicious. And a mysterious e-mail from Talismaniac.com which read only "help he's here" provided Ian a place to focus his suspicions.

* * *

Prospero McQueen was a pimp. No one liked him. He was murdered, shot down in the middle of the street. No one was surprised. Danny and Jake, his temporary partner until Sara got back, rounded up all of McQueen's hookers. The squad room was a mess. Everybody was inconvenienced. Nobody was bereaved. 

"Anyone in the employ of or otherwise aquatinted with Prospero McQueen please raise your hand," Danny yelled into the discontent and scantily dressed mob. Everyone raised their hand.

Jake sighed, "Anyone _not_ acquainted with Prospero, please raise your hands." 

No one raised their hand.

"Oh yeah," Danny said. "This is gonna be a very long night."

* * *

Gabriel started burning things. He already wiped his computer of all its links, all its e-mail addresses but he still didn't feel safe. Well, no, he never felt safe. At any moment his body could be usurped by a power hungry lunatic who would stop at nothing to steel a very powerful talisman from his best friend. But if he could erase all means of reaching anyone he loved, if he could just destroy the paper trail, maybe he could at least feel that everyone he loved was safe.

Gabriel burned his address book, and his high school yearbooks, and every letter he had ever saved from anyone; his dyeing grandmother, his first love, his best friends from high school . . . every trace gone. He could feel the heat from his little bon fire on the roof of his apartment building, and he could smell the smoke. He was him, Gabriel, not Kenneth Irons. He, Gabriel, was doing rapidly what he was sure Irons would do in a very long drawn out, painful way. He, Gabriel, was destroying all records of his life and of himself. And he, Gabriel, was crying.

* * *

Charlene sat playing with the hem of her very short dress. Danny and Jake looked at her curiously from the other side of the one way mirror. 

"She knows," Danny said softly. "She saw it."

"How can you tell?" Jake scoffed. "You haven't even talked to her yet."

"She's to quiet."

"Maybe she's just not a flamboyant person."

"She resisted arrest, demanded to see a warrant."

"So, she knows her rights. Besides, no one wanted to come in here. They could all be charged with resisting arrest."

"None of them demanded to see a warrant."

"None of them know their rights. It's not illegal to be smarter than the average hooker."

"No, no, she saw who did it and she's scared to death they'll come after her. She thinks they know she's a witness."

"Danny," Jake said, exasperated. "Come on, this, this . . . you haven't even asked her a question. How could you possibly . . ."

Danny turned to look at Jake, his dark brown eyes were sharp and focused silencing any objections Jake would make. "She didn't want to come in because it was a cop who killed McQueen, the only reason she came in when there was a warrant was because she knew that a dirty cop wouldn't take the trouble to get one. While everyone else was making a show of themselves she stayed quiet, in the shadows, out of sight, just in case the dirty cop walks in she doesn't want to be seen. She was looking around the station the way a rat looks around the room for a cat. A cop did this guy, and she knows who it is."

"I still think you're deducing an awful lot from the way she's playing with her skirt."

"Alright," Danny said gamely. "What you wanna bet?"

Jake laughed and looked away, when he looked back Danny was still starring at him gamely. "I thought gambling was illegal."

"You gonna arrest me detective, come on, ten bucks, twenty?"

Jake was shocked by Danny's determination. He was never this way when Sara was around, he always seemed to let her take charge. "A beer," he finally blurted out. "After work."

"Fair enough," Danny said. "I bet you a beer that the first thing out of her mouth when we walk in isn't 'I didn't kill him,' or 'I don't know anything,' but 'I didn't see it happen.'"

That, to Jake, seemed like an extremely safe bet. "Alright," the younger man said. "You're on."

They walked out of the observation room and, right before Danny opened the door he turned to Jake, "I like Philsner Urkel and refuse to drink anything on tap."

Jake smiled and nodded, "I'll keep that in mind."

Danny opened the door, let Jake in, and before he could close it Charlene said, in a very timid voice. "I wasn't there."

"Excuse me?" Jake said, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"I didn't see anything," She said, glancing up, before quickly returning her attention to the hem of her dress. "The shooting, I didn't see it happen."

Jake glanced up at Danny, amazed, the Asian man just smiled.

* * *

"Hi Gabriel!" Sara said to her best friend's voicemail. For some reason, Gabriel had been nigh impossible to get a hold of for the last few weeks. Sara would have been worried if she weren't so preoccupied with her wedded bliss. "I'm just here at the base of an active volcano and, ah, I thought of you. There are these teiki gods around and at the luau they tell these legends about ghosts and spirits and stuff and, well, I think of you. I don't wanna say 'wish you were here' because I don't, really. . . . but it'd be nice to talk to you. See how you are, you know. I've, ah, well, you're my friend and I'm starting to miss you, that's all. You know, it's great at night, but during the day he has to go to rehab and physical therapy and all that so I get a little lonely. If you ever feel like calling I've got my cell, it's on. . . . so, yeah, buy."

* * *

Irons, that is to say, Gabriel, was at a club again. Gabriel, the essence of Gabriel, the real Gabriel, the Gabriel who had no control, hated clubs. He didn't like the blaring noise, he didn't like the flashing light, he didn't like the heavy smell of smoke, and he didn't like the people that went to clubs.

"Hey, Kenny!" an anorexic girl with obviously died red hair said as she threw herself at him. The real Gabriel was almost glad he couldn't feel the kiss.

"Well, Dianna," Kenny said using Gabriel's voice. "How splendid you look tonight."

She laughed, it was hollow: everything about her was hollow. "It's all for you. Wanna dance," she said. She was trying to be a temptress, if Gabriel could have, he would have laughed. By this point he knew that Irons liked to be the one who was in power, he couldn't stand not being in control. A temptress had power over those she seduced, Dianna would never win Kenny with that trick.

* * *

Charlene was not detained for further questioning; in truth she'd said nothing that warranted it. But before she left Danny took her aside and spoke to her in a very low voice. "Of the record, I know what you saw."

"I didn' see anything," the girl insisted, nearly in tears. She wasn't very believable.

"I'm not one of them, one of the cops McQueen was paying off. And you know I'm not the one who killed him. I want to protect you."

"I just want to be left alone."

Danny nodded compassionately, "You have every reason to be scared. We're not holding you to protect you. But you know, if we could lock these guys up, that's the only way you'd ever be safe."

"I can't stay here."

"I know," Danny said, his voice very quiet, very kind. "But, if you try to leave the city we're gonna have to pick you up, and lock you up. Stay low, but stay in the city. And if you ever, ever feel scared, or see the guy, just call me. On the back's my cell number, it's always on. Ok?"

Charlene nodded. "Ok," she managed to choke out.

Danny nodded and smiled and put a supportive hand on her shoulder. "Ok."

* * *

"Master," Ian Nottingham said with his head bowed in supplication. 

Irons looked down at him like an ungrateful God, "Yes, Ian, what do you want?"

"I am concerned for your welfare."

"My welfare?" Irons was almost laughing, "Ian, I have returned from the dead, renewed, invigorated, and wiser. I will not question the will of the Witchblade any longer, I will waist no more time on Sara Pezzini. Let her and her husband enjoy their lives for as long as fate sees fit."

"Master, I did not raise any concerns about the Witchblade," Ian said carefully. He was extending himself on to very thin ice.

"Of course not, you're sill infatuated with her. You always will be you know. But she has found someone else, someone who is not you, Ian, and he has made her content."

These statements, though they were all true, were clearly said to hurt Nottingham. But Ian had been ready for such a forward attack. Like a good servant he knew his master well. Emotional, financial and physical manipulation was Irons stock in trade. He never lifted a finger yet he moved worlds. Ian sensed a greater manipulation going on, but he could not sense what it was. Still, he could not confront his master, that was too forward. Their relationship did not work that way and would, most likely, be terminated by the quick slashing of a knife across his throat.

"Run along, Ian," Irons said dismissive. "I do not need your ignorant concerns cluttering my day and as childishly sweet as they appear, I assure you that they are, in fact, childish. Surly I am better served with you elsewhere."

"As you wish, Master," Ian said, bowing low again and backing away. Far from alleviating Ian's concerns, Irons had magnified them with his cool flippant remarks. However, Irons had underestimated his servant, a very foolish thing for any man to do, and as Ian walked down the street, wrapped conspicuously in his black overcoat, he tried to determine the best way to exploit Iron's mistake. As he wandered, the boy, Gabriel Bowman's, e-mail found it's way into his stream of thought. It was an odd e-mail to receive from anyone, particularly someone placed as Mr. Bowman was, on the bridge between the present and the past, myth and reality. Ian found himself turning right and taking the eastbound subway to the Talismaniac showroom.

He entered the dimly lit warehouse as the tune 'Sprit in the Sky' met his ears and for a split second, he hesitated. Ian Nottingham knew enough about his life to know that Deja Vu was more than a trick of the mind or a random sensation. He had entered this room and heard this music before, perhaps in another timeline or a past life. All in all, the feeling was disconcerting.

"Hey," Gabriel said, walking out from another room. He stopped cold when he saw Ian, "Ah . . . Mr. Nottingham."

Ian's eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy, Gabriel was worn. Their were bags under his eyes, a cautious nervous look in his eyes, his hands shook ever so slightly and his voice had the distinct tone of one who was hunted. "Mr. Bowman, I was wondering if I could impose on you to make another transaction for me."

"Really?" Gabriel said, nervously. "You, or your boss?"

"You refer naturally, to Mr. Irons."

"Yeah, I refer to him."

"This perches is to be outside Mr. Irons sphere."

"Under his radar?"

"Precisely."

"Can't do it," Gabriel said simply. He sounded ashamed.

"I was under the impression, Mr. Bowman, that you could do anything." 

There was a heavy silence. Gabriel looked at the ground and swallowed hard, Ian's steady gaze tried to cut through the boy's defenses and see the truth of the situation. A truth which, Ian was sure, was intimately connected with Irons.

Finally, Gabriel looked up, his gray eyes had just a spark of anger, but no more than a spark. The flame had been doused by fear and exhaustion. "Did he send you?"

"Irons?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Will you believe me if I say no?"

It was Ian's turn to be examined with critical piercing eyes. It was an odd sensation, to be searched and measured, very few people had the bravado to try. Ian stood patently letting the boy's eyes search, knowing full well that anything worth finding was buried deep enough to stay hidden. 

Finally, Gabriel spoke. "He wouldn't need to."

There was another pause as Ian tried to figure out what that was supposed to mean. Irons did nothing alone. In every endeavor he needed other people; such was the disadvantage of power through manipulation. "What power does he hold over you?" the dark man asked. Ian was not trying to be threatening, but he did not succeed in that endeavor. 

Gabriel took a step back. "I think he'd kill you. I don't know, I don't know _him_, but . . ." Gabriel's voice trailed off. Ian could see that, for a moment, the boy was lost in his own memories. Ian also noticed that he started rubbing his hands on his jeans, as if he were trying to rub off a stain.

"You are correct in assuming that my Master wouldn't hesitate to remove me from any situation where my presence hindered his goals. What you need to know, Mr. Bowman, is Sara will return. I cannot ally her in her cause, nor can I disobey my masters will. Still, I live with the certainty that in all situations Lady Sara will find her own way and be triumphant."

Gabriel looked up at Ian with an expression that, Ian assumed, signified a broken heart and a broken will. It would surly have sent Sara into a bout of motherly compassion or perhaps murderous rage. It invoked little to no emotion in Ian. "Sara," the boy said softly, he blinked a couple of times and scratched his head. "Sara," he muttered again and then, inexplicably, turned around and disappeared into the back room, leaving Ian alone. 

To be continued . . .


	3. Addled

****

Authors Note: I know some people are going to wonder where she came from so let me explain exactly who Maddie is. First off, I more or less invented her but she's based on three things. One, in _Lagrimas_ Gabriel confesses to being in love with a girl he meet. Maddie is that girl. In _Hierophant_ Gabriel consults a NYU language specialist. Maddie is that linguist. In _Veritas_, Gabriel has a lover. Maddie is that girl too. Being a linguist, none of us should be surprised she speaks fluent Bulgarian. On another note entirely, keep up the reviews!

****

Addled

"Whoo-hoo!" Danny called as Sara walked into the bullpen. "Welcome back sunshine girl!"

She truly had been kissed by the sun. Her skin was at least two shades darker and her hair several shades lighter. Sara blushed at the attention, but it was hidden by her tan.

"So, Sara" Jake asked, walking up to her a little awkwardly. "How was the honeymoon?"

"Let me tell you Jake, they don't call Hawaii an Island Paradise for nothing. It was amazing."

"Yeah, couldn't you tell by all the phone calls we got?" Danny teased. "I felt like I was on the honeymoon too."

"Just trying to spread the love," Sara said with a laugh.

"Petzini!" the aggravated voice of Captain Bruno Dante cut through the room. Sara, Danny and Jake quickly swiveled to see the ten year commander descend on them in a foul mood. "About time you got back!"

"Cap," Sara laughed, "I was on my honeymoon."

"Yeah, leaving us shorthanded while the Murder rate goes through the roof."

Sara rolled her eyes. "Sorry Chief, I'll try to schedule my next wedding for a more convenient time."

"Oh there's and idea, Pezzini," Orlinsky said from across the room. "Scheduling a wedding."

"Yeah, yeah," Sara said, annoyed. She was just going to have to role with the punches on this one. She had to admit, if Vicky Po ran off with a guy who'd just come out of a coma, Sara would not be beyond cracking a few jokes. "If there's such a crime spree, maybe you should stop giving me such a hard time about my wedded bliss and hand me a case."

"Done and done," Dante said. "We just got a report of a body in the dumpster outside of The Wet Monkey Dance Club down on Sixty Eighth and Gilmore."

"Right," Sara said, turning to get her helmet off her desk. "I'm on it."

"Woo, McCarty, I want you guys to be on it too."

"But sir," Danny said, "We've got the McQueen . . ."

"Hey," Dante snapped, "That guy, McQueen, he was a pimp and generally agreed upon bastard. The worlds better without him. Over at The Wet Monkey we've got a teenaged girl, somebody's daughter. Prioritize!" With that the captain stormed out of the room in a blaze of furry.

"Yes sir," Jake muttered.

* * *

"You visited Gabriel Bowman," Kenneth Irons said as soon as Ian entered the large study. "Why?"

Ian took a deep breath and lied. "You were correct master. I have been obsessed with Lady Sara's wedding. I wished to put . . . closure on my state of mind by purchasing her a wedding gift."

"And what, pray tell, did you have in mind?"

"A Sword, perhaps. It would seem appropriate."

"Any sword?"

"I did not have one in mind."

"So you decided to window shop in a place where you've threatened to kill the proprietor? Do you really think he will offer you a fair price?"

"Fair or not, there are few places where weapons of legend and myth can be bought for any price."

"Why did you want to keep this gift a secret from me?" Irons asked smoothly. Nottingham didn't react, outwardly, to the question. Inwardly his mind searched possibilities. Irons could assume that, because Ian had not notified him about his intentions, he was being reticent. Or, perhaps, Irons had bugged the boy's showroom, and monitored it periodically. That was certainly possible. Or, perhaps, there was something more insidious going on. Perhaps Irons and Bowman were somehow connected. Not in league, Ian was sure that the boy was not the type to be threatened, bought or manipulated into compliance. But the more Ian thought of it, the more likely it seemed that something outside the boy's control, but not outside of his masters, was intertwining their fates. 

"I was ashamed," Ian lied coolly. "I did not think you would approve."

Irons looked down at his servant severely and then nodded. "Perches whatever you wish to for our Lady Sara and her new husband. I would advise you, though, to use the Internet. I'm sure you'll get a better deal from a stranger whose life you have not threatened."

"Of course, master," Ian said, bowing before he wrapped his dark cloak around him and flowed out of the room.

* * *

"So," Pez said with a sigh. "What's the story?"

Vicky Po looked up from the garbage covered body and smiled. "Sara, glad to see you back. How was the honeymoon?"

"Great," Sara said casually, as if there wasn't a corps lying at her feet. "Conchobar and I had a great time."

"I'm sorry I missed the wedding," Vicky said as she stood up. "The news paper article made it sound really nice."

"Ah, yeah," Sara said, trying to sound amused not enraged. "You don't know who did that by the way, do you?"

"Did what?"

"Told the papers."

"Sorry, Pez, not a clue. But I did want to ask you if the first thing he said when he woke up was really 'Will you marry me?'"

Sara laughed, "Not quite. He woke up and said 'Sara,' and I think I said 'Conchobar' and then the doctors and nurses came in and I was usurer out. When they finally let me see him again we talked for a while. It just happened that he proposed right before an overly sentimental nurse was kicking me out for the night."

Vicky tilted her head and looked starry-eyed, "That's so romantic." 

Sara found herself more than a little bothered by the M.E.'s sudden sentimentality. She quickly changed the subject. "So, what's the word on the body?"

"Name Dianna Baxter, she's 19 and she was strangled to death."

"Nineteen?" Sara said looking down at the body. "I thought this club was 21 and over."

"According to her fake ID she's 35."

Sara stared down at the corpse. Most of the makeup had worn off her pail face and her hair was a filthy, but she was still marked by the pretty lines of youth, and then there were the dark red lines of strangulation around her neck. This poor girl had truly lived fast and left a good-looking corpse. "I think their bouncer needs glasses. Did Mom and Dad know about her little excursions?"

"Probably not considering Dianna's been living at Juvy for the past two years."

"Two years?" Sara asked amazed. "What did she do?"

"You're looking at an entrepreneur Sara. This girl started a prostitution ring in her High School."

"You're kidding," Sara said.

"Nope."

"Well," Sara gasped, her mind still reeling at the sordid facts of the teenagers life. "How'd she get out?"

"Not my job, detective."

"Yeah," Sara said, forcing herself to focus on her job. "Sorry. Why don't you tell me about the body."

"Well," Vicky said with a sigh. "The girl was found in a dumpster."

"Yeah," Sara said. "I heard that."

"And the idiot who found her thought she might still be alive so he dragged her out, totally ruining the scene."

"What _can_ you tell me?"

"She's been dead about two days. Cause of death strangulation. The size and the shape of the bruising implies hands, my guess, male, but not a big guy, about five-six to five-eight, probably wearing rings. She did have intercourse before the murder but it doesn't look like rape."

"Still, whoever slept with her probably killed her."

"Seems likely."

"I take it you've got enough sperm for a DNA test?"

"Yeah, no problem."

"Well then, we'll get our man," Sara said smiling.

* * *

"Gabriel, come on," Maddie's voice begged across the answering machine. "Please pick up. Please."

Gabriel closed his eyes and thought of her. The way her smile would start on the right side of her face and then spread to the left. The way she would catch a joke about a half a second before anyone else but would confine herself to an insistent giggle. The way she would correct his grammar. They way she changed the color of her hair every other week. The way she looked dreamy eyed as she talked about the linguistic evolution of Latin to Norman to English. The way she could slip easily from one language to another, sometimes within a single sentence. The way she buried her head into his shoulders during the suspenseful parts of Hitchcock films. The way she kissed with abandon. The way it felt just right to wrap his arms around her. The way he loved her more and more every time he thought about her.

He had sworn not to talk to her for her own protection. It was an easy promise to make because, at the time, she'd been in India finishing her six-week mini-mester at the University of New Deli. But now she was back and now she was worried and now he just couldn't stop himself from picking up the phone. "Cunning Medea," he said lovingly.

"Angelic Gabriel," she said back, her voice was a wash of relief. "I've been calling all over. No one's heard from you for weeks! I've personally visited every hospital in the city trying to find you. I was ten seconds away from reporting you as a missing person!"

"Maddie, I'm sorry."

"The hell you're sorry! I've been panicked! You've turned off your cell phone, you're not answering your e-mails. It's like you don't want to exist anymore. Where were you?"

"Maddie, I can't explain."

"Well you had better . . ." she started before quite reregistering what he said. "What?" 

"Of all the people in the world, Maddie, you're the one I want to tell this to the most. But . . . I'm dangerous right now. Stay away."

"Dangerous? Gabriel, what's wrong. You can trust me."

"I know I can," he said. "But there are other people I can't trust. If you stay away from me they'll never know you exist, you'll be safe."

"Tell me what's going on. I can help."

"Maddie, no," Gabriel said as forcefully as he could. "Please, if anything happened to you I'd go nuts. Please, just stay away from me. Please."

"But, Gabriel, I love you."

"I love you too. Trust me. Please, trust me."

There was a long silence, he thought he heard a sniffle, but when Maddie's voice came back it sounded resolute. "I will trust you Gabriel. I love you and I will trust you. But if anything happens to you, so help me god, you'll regret not having me there to save you."

Gabriel laughed. It was the first time he'd laughed for what seemed like forever. It felt so good, so right to laugh, and laugh with her. It took all the resolve he could muster to say what he said next, "Maddie, I have to go. In case I don't see you ever again . . . I love you."

"Ever again . . . Gabriel . . ."

"I love you so much."

"I love you too, but Gabriel, hold on . . ."

"Goodbye." 

He hung up the phone. He felt like bursting into tears, but he couldn't, not yet. He had to unplug his phone, his last connection to the world, and take the tape out of the answering machine, and wonder onto the roof and burn it. Then he could cry.

* * *

The buzzer to the apartment rang, waking Conchobar from a light nap. He slowly pushed himself off of the couch and headed towards the door. There was another loud buzz, and then an insistent knocking.

"All right, all right," he grumbled to the impatient person on the other side of the door. "I'm coming."

He opened the door and saw a man in a UPS uniform talking to the crack in the door where Mr. Matthis, the cranky old man next door, could be seen scowling. 

"Please, this is my last package for the day, could you just sign for the damn thing?"

"Ask him to sign why don't ch'a?" Mr. Matthis said.

The UPS man turned around and forced something that might have been a smile. "I've got a delivery for Sara Pezzini."

"She's not here right now."

"Will you sign for it?"

"I suppose," Conchobar said, taking the little electronic box and the pen that the deliveryman was pushing on him. "Wha' is it?"

"A package," the man grunted as he turned out into the hall. Conchobar leaned out of the apartment to look down the hall. The man was, rather awkwardly carrying a package that was approximately ten feet long, two feet wide and four feet deep. And if the delivery man's face was any indication, very very heavy. "A little help?" The deliveryman practically demanded.

"Sorry," Conchobar said as he watched, bewildered, as the smaller man struggled to get the long brown box through the door. "Doc says I can't do any heavy lifting."

"Asshole," the deliveryman muttered a little two loud. Conchobar decided he didn't deserve a tip.

The box was dragged in and hit the ground in the living room with a thud. Conchobar nodded at the deliveryman, who was waiting expectantly. A distracted, "T'anks," was all he got.

A couple minutes after the door was angrily slammed by the deliveryman, the phone rang. 

"'Ello, Pezzini residence."

"Hey Baby."

"And how is my wife?"

"Better now I'm talking to you. How you doin?"

"At the moment I'm confused. Who's Ian Nottingham?"

"Why?" Sara asked. Her voice sounded afraid.

"He sent us a wedding gift, Sara, who is he?"

"A guy."

"Yeah, tha' I guessed."

"He's ah, he was obsessed with me. It's pretty complicated."

"Is he dangerous?"

"I, ah, I don't think so. I mean, I know he could be if he wanted to be but . . . he respects me."

"Respects you?"

"He knows what I can do. I don't think we have to be afraid of him. To be honest he's more annoying than anything else." 

"Well, the UPS man was annoyed with him. This wedding present, it's very odd."

"Odd how?"

"It's long and heavy."

"Well what is it?"

"I'da'know. Didn't open it."

"Go ahead."

"Don't ch'a wanna be here too?"

"If your willing to wait."

Conchobar stared at the package for a moment. "I'm gonna open it. Hold on."

He put the phone on the floor, pulled out his pocketknife and made quick work of the cardboard and tape. Sara listened to him huff and grunt at the labor with bated breath. Finally he got back on the line. 

"Sara, who is this Nottingham guy again?" 

"Just this guy I know from a case I did once. Really he's no one for you to worry about. What did he send us?"

Conchobar stared down at the package. The cardboard had been ripped away, Styrofoam peanuts had spilled out onto the wooden floor, and a large steel blade, almost nine feet long, with a intricately sculpted hit portraying two lovers in an intimate embrace surrounded buy thick vines. "A claymore."

"What?" Sara asked, flabbergasted.

"It's like a, a really big sword."

"Yeah, I know what it is. He sent us a claymore?"

"I's a pretty erotic claymore at that."

"That freak!" she said. Conchobar couldn't help but laugh at the tone of her voice. Apparently he wasn't the only one because he could hear Sara say, "Shut up Danny, you know I can kill you."

Very faintly in the background he could even hear Jake say, "Better be careful Danny. She's got a really big sword."

"You wanna send it back, Sara?" Conchobar asked, knowing instinctively that she did not see this as at all funny. "There's no return address, but how many places sell gigantic swords in this city?"

Sara sighed. "No, not unless you want to. Believe it or not, from this guy, and erotic sword is kinda sweet."

"Really," Conchobar asked, not sure what to make of that kind of character testimonial. "I'd like to meet this man sometime."

"If he stay's true to form I don't think you'll be able to avoid it," Sara scoffed. "And hey, speaking of avoiding, Danny wants to have us over for Dinner tonight. Wadya say?"

"Will I have to make a salad or desert?"

"Neither, I'll pick up some wine on the way home."

"Then I say we should go."

"Great," Sara said. "I'll be home around 5:15. We can leave for their place by six."

"Are you gonna wear that dress you bought in Honolulu?

Her voice was low, he could imagine the blush on her tanned cheeks. "If you really want me to I will."

"If I had my way you'd always wear that black dress," he said. "But then, if I had my way we'd never leave the apartment, and only rarely leave the bedroom."

"Goodbye Conchobar," she said, her voice playfully annoyed.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

"Dear Sara," Gabriel started writing. His palms were sweating and his hands shook. He hadn't really written anything in years. He was a child of his era, much more comfortable with keys and screens than pen and paper. But it seemed wrong to say what he was about to say in an e-mail. 

"This letter is a confession, an explanation and a goodbye. I know, after everything I'm gonna say, you're going to want to save me. Please don't try. I can't trust myself and I don't want you to get hurt. I told you once you were of this world and I wasn't. That's true. If I'm a casualty of this war so be it, just make sure you keep fighting."

He took a deep breath and read over his first paragraph. He thought it sounded pathetic and unconvincing. Yates he was not. With a sigh he started on his second paragraph. "First off you should know that, before you came to me three weeks ago . . ."

Suddenly a cold force griped him and his entire consciousness was shoved in the back of his head. Even after weeks of being forced into the back of his mind, Gabriel still tried to fight it. But he had no weapons, no defenses, and no skills. He fell with little more than a push by his opponent.

"Well," Gabriel heard his voice say coldly. "Mr. Bowman is confessing. Very noble, to damn ones self in order to implicate another, truly altruistic. I, however, have no use for altruism."

Irons, using Gabriel's hands, reached forward and crumpled the paper with the confession on it. Then, seeming to think better of it, he smoothed the paper out again. "However, a confession will be characteristic, not to mention, believable. A person is very rarely noble one day and corrupt the next, any such lapses inevitably result in a twinge of conscious. A twinge, however misplaced, which you Mr. Bowman have been feeling for quite a few days now, it would seem.

"It's a pity that hand writing is developed in the mind and not a purely physical attribute. It would be more convincing if Sara could read it in your own hand. But your technological savvy allows me to reproduce this paragraph, along with some of my own design, on the computer. Sara will accept a typed letter without question.

"Congratulations, Mr. Bowman. You've found a way to accelerate your own demise, as well as that of our dear Sara."


	4. Manifestations

****

Manifestations

Sara couldn't think of the last time she'd laughed so hard. If Conchobar hadn't been sitting next to her she probably would have fallen on the ground, her arms around her sides, gasping for breath, just so she could laugh more.

"Wait, no," Danny said with an outrageous smile. "It gets better! She follows me into the bathroom and keeps hammering at me."

"Sara," Conchobar said, impressed at her audacity. 

"And of course, the guys are out of there like rats on a sinking ship and Sara just stairs at them, like it's their problem, you know."

"Oh, Sara," Danny's wife, Li, said, rolling her eyes as she chuckled.

"Then," Danny said between his own hearty laughs. "She looks at this one guy who's getting out of their as quickly as possible you know, and says 'Hey, buddy, wash your hands!'"

For well over a minuet the table was hopelessly lost in a fit of laughter.

Finally, Li composed herself enough to stand up and start clearing the table. "Conchobar, could you hand me the rolls."

"Ah, Li, let me help you with that," Sara said, standing.

"No, no, why don't you all go into the living room. I'll bring the coffee out in a minute."

"You don't want any help?" Sara asked.

"Look at you," Danny said laughing, "married for less than a month and you're already domesticated."

Sara opened her mouth to object but her husband beet her too it. "I certainly hope not! My wife has a damn good job, and she's damn good at it too. I'd much rather tell my buddy's back in Ireland that my wife's a detective then a house keeper. Make's life more interestin.'"

Sara smiled broadly at Danny, essentially saying 'don't I have the best husband in the world?'

Danny smiled and chuckled and said, "Come on, let's go sit in the living room."

"Hey," Sara said as the made the short trip from one room into the other. "Speaking of work, I meant to ask you but I got swept up in this new case; anything interesting happen while I was gone?"

"Yeah, actually," Danny said, lowering himself into an armchair while Sara and Conchobar, their hands intertwined, sunk into the loveseat. "There was a Pimp, murdered, but it was . . . suspicious."

"Suspicious?" Sara asked. "When the bad guy gets murdered it's usually pretty much cut and dry."

"Yeah, that's the thing. It's not. For starters the guy was killed by a 45, standard cop issue."

Sara shrugged, "So what, lot's of people have 45's."

"There were no shell casings at the scene."

"We got a pissed off street walker who gets fed up with her pimp and just happens to be smarter than the average hooker."

Danny laughed, "That's pretty much what Jake said. But we also got a witness."

"Oh," Sara said a little sarcastically. "That could be useful."

"She won't talk."

"Or not."

"But I know she knows a cop did it."

Sara leaned forward, her voice hushed. "A cop?"

"Yeah," Danny said, "The girl, her name's Charlene, she's scared to death. Won't say a word unless we can protect her."

Sara suddenly got a very strong image of a young girl with blond hair in a skimpy skit and a tight t-shirt. The girl was behind bars, looking scared and frightened. Detective Orlinsky swaggered by and Sara heard her own voice say, 'Just between you and me, that guy was our killer wasn't he?'

"Sara?" Conchobar asked softly and kindly as he put his hand at the base of her neck and squeezed gently. "Y'alright."

"Ah, yeah," Sara stuttered. "Just a little shocked."

" Don' the police have an Internal Affairs unit or somthin'?" Conchobar asked. "Couldn' they help?"

"You don't just accuse a cop of abusing his power on a suspicion. I mean, even if we could get Charlene to point the finger it'd be a hooker's word against an officer's. Who would you believe?"

"I see the problem," Conchobar said.

"More than that," Sara added, as if she were coming to a realization. "They mostly kill people we'd label as bad guys. Who's gonna miss a pimp here or a drug dealer there?"

"They?" Danny asked. "Sara, There's no reason to believe there was more than one guy in on this."

"Dante called off the investigation, Danny."

"Yeah, so, he does that all the time."

"Mostly when pimps and drug dealers are the victims."

"So your saying Dante's been killing all those people?"

"Not just him, a whole group of them. A string of corrupt cops."

"Sara," Danny said frankly. "You're started to sound like a conspiracy theorist."

"It's not a theory, Danny, It's a fact."

"You have no evidence."

Sara opened her mouth and closed it again. She knew she had evidence, she just couldn't remember what it was. Thankfully, that was the moment Li came out of the kitchen with the coffee and the subject turned to more pleasant things, like the boost in Conchobar's CD sales after the article on their wedding and what the best color to paint a nursery would be.

* * *

Sara looked at Conchobar sleeping peacefully in the bed they shared. She stroked his hair, leaned forward, kissed his forehead, and got out of bed. She just wasn't tired.

Sara loved the city at night, the way the streetlights gave everything a sort of soft glow and how the emptiness made her footsteps echo. The city was a different world at night, most people knew that. But most people assumed it was a darker, eviler world. Sara knew enough to know that evil and darkness wasn't afraid of the daylight, they operated pretty much 24/7. As far as Sara was concerned, city nights were just more magical, more enchanted, and more wondrous.

"The darkness calls to you, Sara," the creepy yet familiar voice of Ian Nottingham said right at her ear. "As it calls to me. It seduces us with the promise of secrecy and beguiles us with all it holds within its shadows. We can lose ourselves in it all too easily. At times I wonder if I am already lost."

"Hey Ian," Sara said casually. "Thanks for the sword. Where'd you get it?"

"It was one of the forgotten pieces in Vorschlag's art collection."

"Really?" Sara said. "Irons know you gave it away?" 

"He would be a fool not to."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"The sword is truly one of a kind. It was forged for and Irish King to give to his Queen on their wedding night."

"He gave her a claymore on their wedding night?"

"Yes."

"Lucky girl."

"I would be tempted to say that Cathain's love was one of a kind, only I know that not to be true."

"What'cha talking about?"

"What did your Conchobar give you on your wedding night Sara?"

"That," Sara said laughing. "Is none of your business."

"Unfortunately, you are correct in that. My business, it would seem, has turned to a very unsettling affair." They had been walking, side by side, down the dark street. He suddenly pivoted and was standing right in front of her, blocking her path and holding her with his intense brown eyes. "Do you know, Sara, can you imagine what it is like to realize that you are the villain in a cosmic story. That your role is not to aid the heroine but to hinder her. That betrayal and deceit are your stock in trade. Do you know, Sara, what it is to discover your place in the world and find that you despise it?"

"No," Sara said very slowly and very emphatically. Ian was getting creepy, which was normal for him, but there was a desperation in his eyes that was entirely new. 

"Of course you wouldn't," Ian said looking away. "I truly do wish all happiness to you and your new husband. I pray that every second fate allows you to share with him will be a comfort and a joy."

"Thanks," Sara said. She suddenly wanted to be home and have Conchobar in her arms.

As if he knew her very thoughts, he said, "Yes, go home to your warm bed and husband's embrace. But before you do, there is something you must know. Gabriel Bowman is not to be trusted."

"What!" Sara said. For the second time that day, Ian had given her something that stretched the bounds of believability. 

"He knows this to be true, which is why he will not contact you. If you are wise, you will do all in your power to avoid him."

"Your nuts," Sara told Ian boldly. "Gabriel is one person I know I can trust."

"You will do what you feel is right, naturally, but my conscience, and I do have one Sara, although it is often overpowered by stronger voices, would not allow me to leave you unwarned."

"Well," Sara said hesitantly. "Thanks."

Ian bowed, nobly, turned and was about to disappear into the darkness when Sara yelled. "Wait!"

The man in black hesitated, and looked back at her over his shoulder, "Do you require something of me, Lady Sara?"

"Yeah," Sara said with more bravado than she felt. She wasn't quite sure exactly what she was asking for, but she knew, beyond all doubt, that Ian Nottingham would give it to her. "I want my father's tape."

Ian actually seemed, for a second, startled. "Why would you think I would have anything of your father's in my possession?"

Sara took a deep breath and stepped forward, feeling more confident by the second. "I don't know why you have it or why you took it. I do know I want it back."

"That, I'm afraid, is not possible."

"Yes," Sara insisted. "It is. Tell ya what, you can either get that tape to me by, say, tomorrow. Or I can come and get it."

Ian seemed to consider these two options for a long moment. Finally he said, "Your father's videocassette will be delivered to you tomorrow. I suggest, however, that you carefully consider with whom you view it. Such decisions are a matter of life and death."

"Thanks," Sara said, nodding. She was more curious than ever to know what was on that tape, and more bewildered by the fact she even knew it existed. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Jake put his face in his hands and starred at the video. He rewound it, stared at it some more. It still had the same images. He still had to come to the same conclusions.

"Hey Jake," Danny said, somewhat jovially as he walked into the office. "How's it goin'?"

"Ahh," Jake stuttered. He reached over and stopped the VCR so that the TV screen was nothing but static. 

"Is that the surveillance tape from the club?" Danny asked before taking a swig of coffee out of his Styrofoam cup. Danny winced at the heat or the bitterness, Jake didn't know which, and when he spoke again his voice sounded a little forced. "Does our murderer have a face?" 

"Ahh, yeah," Jake said dismissively before switching the subject. "Danny, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Do you think you can know whether or not someone is a murder?"

"Of course you can, evidence, testimonies . . ."

"No," Jake insisted. "I mean, can you know if someone does or does not have the potential to murder?"

"Well, Jake, I don't know. Most people seem surprised to find out someone they know killed another person."

"Yeah," Jake said. "We don't get very many people saying 'He was a total jackass. I saw it comin' a mile away.' But that's the average person, the people that only know about murder through TV and Movies. I mean us, you, me, Pez, detectives. We know what to look for, you think we could spot a murderer?"

"I'd like to think I'd catch the signs. Why?"

"Watch," Jake said as he pushed play on the VCR.

When the tape was done Danny just shook his head in disbelief. "That's just . . . I don't know, he never seemed . . ."

"My point exactly," Jake said.

* * *

Sara kissed Conchobar awake, a much harder task than it seems in the movies. When he did finally wake up he laughed at her, because she was kissing him with a decidedly frustrated expression on her face. Conchobar loved her for many reasons, but one of them was the way she laughed. He was the type of person who could laugh at just about anything. Growing up so close to the death and destruction of the IRA, a good sense of humor was necessary to stay sane. And Sara was not too good to laugh at his crude jokes, even if she shook her head scoldingly as she did it. Nor was she too proud to laugh at herself when he found her funny. Perhaps best of all was that, instead of comforting him or scolding him when he did something truly idiotic, she would laugh with him. 

So when she left the apartment for a day's hard work out on the hard streets, the devoted husband couldn't help but find the apartment empty and full of quiet. He had opted to move into her place because, while they both had apartments big enough for two people with comparable rents and equally convenient locations, she had the cooler refrigerator, and he had less stuff. His plan was simple; he would pull all his boxes into the living room and then sort them out into piles by room, and then organize each room individually. If carried out correctly there would only be one very big mess instead of a plethora of small messes throughout the apartment. Unfortunately, as soon as he built up the self-determination to begin he was distracted by the claymore in the middle of the room.

He looked at it for a moment, wondering what he should do with it. Sara hadn't told him what Ian had told her last night, about the sowed being a gift to Cathain from her lover on their wedding night. If he had known that he would have gladly mounted it on the wall, it would have been his prize possession. But all he knew was that it was a very odd gift given by a disquieting man who Sara didn't want to talk about and he wanted to know more. Ignoring his doctor's orders not to lift anything over twenty pounds for three weeks he hoisted the blade out of the box, warped it in newspaper and duct tape and grabbed a taxi to Ulysses Ave. 

Gabriel buzzed Conchobar up and was smiling broadly as he opened the door to let the Irishman in. "Conchobar, I'm honored by your visit. I didn't think you'd grace my shop with your presence unless you had the lovely Sara by your side."

Conchobar smiled back, nodded, and entered the shop very cautiously. He didn't know why, but every instinct in his body was urging him not to trust this prolific blue-eyed boy in front of him. "Yeah, well, she's so busy with work. I though' I might run this errand wi'out her."

"And what errand might that be?"

Conchobar looked at the boy for a moment, wondering if this were a joke. For what it was worth, Gabriel looked like he was in total earnest. Conchobar nodded towards the sword wrapped in newspapers lying in his arms.

"Oh, yes, of course," the boy smiled. "Why don't you set it," he looked around the room, as if he were uncertain as to where, exactly he examined artifacts. "Here," he finally said, leading Conchobar to a large oak table that looked like it was older than the Declaration of Independence. 

Conchobar let the sword clatter onto the table and ripped the newspaper off. Gabriel's face was twisted into something like horror, as if the larger man's roughness with what was unquestionably a relic of some kind was giving him physical pain. Conchobar noticed and found it disturbingly amusing. 

"Sara n'me got this as a weddin' present. I was just wondering if you knew what it was, whether or not it was authentic and, ah, how much it was worth."

"Are you looking to sell it?" Gabriel asked. His tone struck Conchobar as extremely untrustworthy. 

"Nah, I'm just curious. Seems the guy who sent this was obsessed with Sara. I'm just a little concerned about how obsessed."

Gabriel shot Conchobar what could only be called a wicked smile. "Jealous are you? It's not very becoming."

"Look," Conchobar said, finally letting a little bit of his dislike for Sara's friend show in his voice. "I love Sara more than I love anythin' and I trust her with my life, and more. And I know, in my soul, that she feels the same way. I don't have to be jealous. What I am, is concerned. The way she describes this guy, Ian Nottingham, doesn't sound like the kind a guy to be trusted with anythin' not to mention the life and safety of my wife."

"What would you say if I told you that 'this guy' Ian Nottingham, is fated to be Sara's true soul mate? That their bond is far deeper and richer than any week link of law and practice you may form."

"I'd say," Conchobar said, trying very hard to keep his Irish temper under wraps for Sara's sake. "Tha' you don't know me, and you don't know Sara."

"I beg to differ, it is you who do not know Sara."

There was a very tense moment while Conchobar forced himself to swallow his rage and Gabriel smiled at him maliciously. Finally, the Irishman said, "You gonna tell me 'bout the sword or no'?"

Gabriel took a deep breath, "No, no I don't think I will."

Conchobar nodded, "Tha's fine by me." He said, as he took the weapon of the table, not bothering to sheath it in the newspaper. He turned around and started walking out of the room, hoping never to see the blue-eyed bastard again.

"Turning tail and running, are you . . . Mick?" Gabriel's voice called after him. "You don't deserve Sara. I always knew that, deep down, but I wasn't convinced until just now."

Conchobar sucked his breath through his teeth and told himself, _don't react, that's what he wants, don't give him the satisfaction_

"Of course," the little bastard continued. "I must admit that meeting you forces me to reevaluate my view of Sara. I always considered her a lady of, distinction. Perhaps I was mistaken . . ."

"Oh, tha's it," Conchobar said, throwing down the sword and approaching Gabriel furiously. "You can say whatever you want about me, I know better than you how true ya are. Bu' I'll no' hear a word again' Sara."

Gabriel didn't move to defend himself. Before Conchobar realized he was not fighting, but rather beating, the insufferable twerp, he'd already landed three good socks to the head and a forceful gut punch that left Gabriel on his knees.

"I s'pose you're gonna call me a barbarian for doin' tha.'" Conchobar said, furious at himself for letting his temper get the better of him.

The boy made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp of pain, "I deserved it. Is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta* right?"

That response, in Gaelic none the less, was the last thing Conchobar had expected to hear. He didn't know if this new humility was a result of the beating, a tactic to throw him off guard, or proof that he'd passed some sort of test. In any event, he was very uncomfortable. He knelt down to see if the boy was ok, but kept his left ready for a quick jab incase it was a trick. "Sorry, I didn'a mean ta hit you so hard."

"No, really, thanks," the boy said, raising his face so that a bloody nose, split lip and brown eye that would soon be swollen shut were clearly visible. Conchobar opened his mouth to ask if Gabriel's eyes had really just made a drastic change of eye color or if his recently recuperated mind was playing tricks on him. But Gabriel kept talking. "I know it sounds crazy but . . . well now I can tell you something," boy said, his voice sounded a little different too, but that could be because he was gasping for breath after the gut punch.

Conchobar relaxed his left hand just a little. "So 't was a test? Tryin' to see if I was good enough for her."

"I know you're good enough for her," the now-brown-eyed-boy said smiling as much as his split lip would let him. "Fate couldn't keep you apart, and it tried. But I need to tell you to get out and never come back."

"Wha'?" that was not what he'd expected the boy to say.

"You have to stay away from me and you have to get Sara to do the same. You're the only one she'll trust. I'm not safe."

Conchobar stared into Gabriel's eyes for a long second trying to figure out where the lie was, was the asshole pretending to be decent now that he had a beating to be afraid of, or had the decent guy dropped the asshole act once Conchobar had proven himself. But those brown eyes didn't testify to any of that stuff. The brown eyes were simply honest, and they were begging. "Please, promise me you'll keep her away. No matter what, don't let her near me."

"Fine," Conchobar said softly. "I'll do what you ask."

"Thanks," Gabriel said before coughing. He spit up blood.

"You need a doctor?"

Gabriel smiled again and shook his head. "Sooner I die, the better."

* * *

Sara came into the precinct with a smile on her face and a spring in her step, despite the conspiracy of corruption she'd remembered last nigh and despite Ian Nottingham's ominous warnings. But before she got to the back room where Jake and Danny were discussing the implications of who they found on the tape, a very beautiful young girl with a complexion as dark as Sara's tan, blond hair with fire-engine red highlights, and large brown eyes distracted her.

"Excuse me, Miss Pezzini," the girl said, putting her hand on Sara's arm.

"Yes?" Sara asked, her voice was slightly annoyed and she glared at the perfectly manicured hand on her arm, the girl didn't retract it.

"My names Maddie Cafaro, I'm a friend of Gabriel Bowman's."

Sara tilted her head and smiled, instantly forgiving the girl for being so forward. She couldn't help but wonder if this is the girl Gabriel had said he was love with. Sara had imagined that Gabriel's lover would have been a little earthier and less polished. "Really?"

The girl nodded. Sara noticed that she looked upset and frazzled under the makeup. Her brown eyes showed signs of crying. Sara's smile disappeared, "Is he ok?"

"I don't know," Maddie said, her voice was trembling. "He's in some sort of trouble he won't tell me about. None of his friends that I know have any idea what's going on. He's not home, or if he is home he's certainly not answering his door. I just . . . I don't . . ."  
The girl was trying very hard not to cry, which was pretty much the only thing that was keeping Sara from running out of the room and conducting a city wide search for her mysterious friend. "Shh, it's ok," Sara said, putting her hand on Maddie's shoulder and leading her towards the back. "Whatever Gabriel's gotten himself into, we'll fix, alright. You don't have to worry."

The girl nodded and wiped her eyes, catching the tears before they reached her cheeks and mixed her eyeshadow with her blush.

"You seem to be pretty close to Gabriel," Sara said tentatively, "hun?"

Maddie took a deep breath, "We're dating."

"Really?" Sara asked, reminding herself that falling in love was not always a mater of choice. "For how long?"

The girl looked up at the ceiling and let out a long, shaky breath as she calculated. "Three moths, almost four."

"Do you love him?" Sara asked. She tried to make her voice sound casual, she tried to sound like she wasn't dyeing to hear the answer.

Maddie smiled and made a soft delicate sound that was half laugh half sob, "He's the most amazing person on earth," she turned and looked at Sara and through all the makeup and all the beauty that struck the detective as false, Sara was able to see a gleam of determination and hope and pure selflessness, and Sara understood why Gabriel had fallen in love. "Of course I love him."

Sara nodded and her voice was firm and cretin, "We'll get to the bottom of this."

They'd reached the door to the office and Sara opened it ushering Maddie in. The girl didn't get past the doorframe. "What's that?" She asked, her voice trembling.

"Sara!" Jake said, a little shocked. "How'd you know to pick up her?"

"What do you mean?" Sara asked, confused by everyone's behavior.

"Is that Gabriel?" Maddie asked, stepping in the room and towards the TV with the footage from the surveillance cameras inside The Wet Monkey. "Who's the girl?"

"You speak English?" Jake asked amazed.

"Dianna Baxter," Danny said cautiously. "Do you know her?"

"No," Maddie said. Suddenly it accrued to Sara that the girl didn't look polished and perfect, just frightened and sad. "Who is she?"

"She's dead," Jake said, with a little less caution. "And this tape makes it look like your boyfriend killed her."

To be continued . . . (don't forget to review!)

* "An open mouth often catches a closed fist" – Old Irish proverb


	5. Revelations

****

Revelations

Maddie staggered backwards, as if she had been physically hit. "Oh my god," she gasped as she fell into the doorframe. Sara was thinking and feeling pretty much the exact same thing, but she couldn't afford to react as dramatically as Maddie had. Reeling with your emotions never solved a murder. 

"Jake turn that thing off," Sara snapped before turning to the girl, who was now crying regardless of her running mascara. "Maddie, calm down. We'll . . . we'll figure this out. Come here," Sara said, gently pulling the girl away from the wall and leading her to the chair in front of Sara's cluttered desk. "Take a moment," Sara said. "Calm down. We are going to have to ask you a couple questions about Gabriel."

"He didn't do it," She sobbed. 

"I believe that," Sara said. "With all my heart, I do. But we've got to prove it, and your testimony can help with that. Alright?"

The girl nodded, but was obviously no closer to being calm. 

"Ok," Sara said kindly. "We're going to leave you alone for a minuet. Let you collect your thoughts. When we come back, do you think you'll be ready to tell us about Gabriel?"

She nodded again, still gasping and sobbing.

"Ok," Sara said again and then, turning to her partners, nodded her head. "Come on guys.  
As soon as they were out of the office with the door closed firmly behind them Sara let go of her emotions. She leaned against the nearest pillar and took a couple of very regulated, very purposeful breaths, she may have been upset, but she was not going to cry.  
"Are you alright, Sara?" Danny asked, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Do you need to sit down?"

"No," she said, although her voice did waver. "No, I'm . . . I'll be ok." She turned and looked at her two partners, her face hard and her eyes demanding. "How bad is it?"

Jake looked at Danny, then back at Sara. "It's pretty bad Pez. The security cameras show him and Baxter together, and the barkeep and two waitresses testified they saw the two leave together the night she was murdered. 

Sara nodded, "Testified how? I mean, did they identify him by name?"

"No," Danny said. "Everyone called our suspect Kenny. And they all described him as having blue or blue gray eyes."

"Gabriel has brown eyes," Sara said.

"I know," Danny said. 

Sara found a determined smile, "Something going on, Danny. Something wired."

"Are there any other kinds of going-on's in your life?"

"I'm going get to the bottom of this. Gabriel could not have committed those murders. The first thing we're gonna have to do, though, is find him and . . ."  
"Sara!" 

The detectives pivoted and saw Conchobar walking towards them with a small package in one hand and a determined look on his face.

"Hey baby," Sara said, running over to him and giving him a large hug. He was what she needed right now, someone strong and supportive. He hugged her back, but she could feel that he was hesitating, holding back. "What's wrong?"

"Sara I've got a confession to make."

"We're not getting an annulment," Sara said quickly and forcefully with a playful look in her eye. "I don't care what you just did, you made a promise and I'd kill you before I let you break it."

Conchobar laughed and smiled. "Ya, haven't even heard me confess."

"I don't have to," she said firmly.

"Bless ya, Sara," he said as he kissed her on the forehead.

"Hey, hey," Jake said playfully. "Get a room."

"What's that?" Danny asked, noticing Conchobar's package, a regular goldenrod envelope that seemed to have a videocassette in it and was marked in bright red letters 'URGENT!'

"I'da'know," Conchobar said. "It came for Sara this mornin.'"

He offered her the package and Sara took it. Suddenly she was overcome with visions, flashes of things she knew had happened. She saw herself as a nine year old girl watching her father's coffin being lowered into the grave. Then her father was kneeling helpless in a dark ally, Joe Siri shaking his head, ashamed, Bruno Dante smiling, and a built with the image of a bull tattooed on it. 

"Sara," Conchobar said, "Y'a'right."

"Ah, yeah . . ." she stuttered. "Danny, Jake, where can we go that's privet?"

"Well, the office," Jake said. "Only right now you've got a sobbing beauty queen in there."

"No," Sara said slowly. "We're going to Joe Siri's house."

"Who?" Jake asked.

"Sara he retired," Danny pointed out.

"Conchobar, will you do me a big favor?"

"'Course," he said. "Sara, is everythin' alright."

"No," she said licking her lips. "Everything is really really wrong. There's a girl in my office cryin' her eyes out. You need to go in there and make sure she doesn't leave. We'll be back in about an hour."

"All right," Conchobar said. "You'll tell me all about wha's really goin' on tonight, won't you?"

"Course, baby," Sara said, pushing herself up on her toes so she could plant a sweet kiss on his lips. "And then you can confess to me."

"Right," Conchobar said, nodding. 

"Danny, Jake, Come on," she said heading rapidly for the precinct exit, leaving the three men for a second to stare at one another, bewildered. 

She was half way to the exit when she realized that none of the men were following her instructions. She turned around expectantly, "Well?"

Finally, Danny said, "I don't want to be the one to say no to her," and started to follow.

Jake and Conchobar looked at each other for a moment before the rookie cop turned to follow Danny. "Hey, wait up!"

* * *

"Sara," Marie Siri said opening the door and smiling presently. "It's so good to see you."

"It's great to see you too Marie," Sara said as she walked in the room, Danny and Jake at her heals. "I hope we're not interrupting anything."

"Only Blues Clues," Marie said with a smile, nodding towards two grandchildren glued to the TV. "But I don't think Hannah or Sammy even noticed. Danny, it's good to see you too. How's your wife?"

"Li's great, thanks for asking." Danny said a little awkwardly. He'd known Joe Siri as a commanding officer, and had met his wife at formal things like retirement parties or the policeman's ball. But he didn't feel close enough to her to show up on her door and be invited inside when she was babysitting.

"Marie, is Joe around?" Sara asked. "There's something kinda important he needs to see."

"I think he's taking a nap," Marie said. "Could you come back later?"

"Umm," Sara said, "It's kinda important. You think you could wake him?"

Marie was clearly surprised, but, as always, she was helpful. "Well . . . I'll see. Have a seat."

Sara walked into the room with comfortable casualty and slouched down on the couch. Hanna turned her head to see who'd entered, but didn't seem overly concerned. Danny walked around so he could see what was on the TV and get an idea of what he himself would probably be very familiar with in a year or two. Jake stayed awkwardly by the door.

After a few minuets, Joe shuffled out of the kitchen smiling behind his large yawn. "Sara, Danny, to what do I owe the honor."

"Hi Joe," Sara said standing up and giving her mentor a large hug.

"Marie and I were just thinking about you. We were hoping to have you and your husband over for dinner soon."

"We'd love that," Sara said. "But before we make too many plans we need to talk."

"What about?"

"Cop stuff," Jake said tersely. 

"Joe," Sara said. "This is Jake, our trainee." The two men nodded at each other by way as introduction. "This is important, Joe, is there another VCR we could use in the house."

"Ah, yeah," Joe said. "In the kitchen, come on."

Soon they were all sitting around the kitchen table facing a small TV/VCR combo that was turned on to soaps. 

"What's this about Sara?" Joe asked. 

"I don't know, Joe," She said, taking a deep breath and pushing the tape into the machine. "We're gonna find out together."

There was a moment of static and then Sara gasped as her father appeared on her screen.

"My name is Officer James Pezzini. New York Police Department, badge number 7945. The date is February 22, 1984. If you're watching this ... it means that I'm already dead."

* * *

Gabriel was not a romantic when it came to suicide. He thought Romeo had been an idiot, and Juliet not very smart. 

He wasn't very romantic about martyrs either. They made great stories for the telling but he always wondered how hard they'd really tried to stay alive. Most of them practically spit in the face of the authority and then acted outraged when the authority spit back. Some of them were really noble innocents, many of them were really rabble-rousers with a death wish.

But as Gabriel stared at the water below him he hoped desperately that he was wrong. That there was something basically good and noble about dying when you could compromise yourself and stay alive. He hoped that all martyrs went instantly to heaven. He gathered his courage and put his foot on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge. 

It would be one quick jump to the other side of the rail then a dive and then . . . then a fall. 

It was easy.

He could do this. 

No problem, not even a hop skip and a jump, just a hop and a jump. 

It was natural. 

He didn't have to try. 

It wouldn't hurt. 

There was no reason to be afraid. 

It was the best thing.

When a strong hand grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt and pulled him backwards Gabriel gasped out of surprise and relief. He closed his eyes and started breathing again; he hadn't realized he'd stopped.

"You were very foolish Mr. Bowman, to think you were ever out of my master's reach," Ian Nottingham said. His voice was thick and his presence ominous.

"I prefer to think of myself as hopeful," Gabriel said, his voice was shaking. Suddenly he felt dizzy.

"Is suicide the act of a hopeful man?"

Gabriel closed his eyes and buried his face in hands. There weren't words for what he felt.

"My master wished for me to inform you that you will not die without his leave, no matter how or when you try."

Gabriel looked up to challenge Ian, not because he had any good arguments but because he wanted to, in whatever ways he still could, resist Irons and his influence. But that was not to be. Ian was gone and Gabriel was alone with his horror and his despair and a jump he would not be allowed to make.

* * *

"So," Conchobar said as he starred at the girl across the desk from him. She was holding up a compact and very carefully retracing her eyeliner before she applied more of a pail pink eyeshadow that matched her dress, which was short, tight, and looked like an oversized T-shirt. Her nails were the same sort of pearly pink color, as were her toenails, which her white flip-flop sandals didn't cover. But behind the nails and the makeup she looked frightened and disheveled. He wondered if this is what she looked like when she didn't care how she looked. "Wha' are ya in for?"

"Excuse me?" the girl said, a little surprised that grungy man sitting across from her had spoken.

"I was just wonderin' what a pretty girl like you would be doin' hangin' round a police station."

"Is this a come on?" the girl sighed. "Because the depths to which I am not interested are . . ."

"No, no," Conchobar said quickly. "You're looking at a happily married man. I was just makin' conversation."

"Oh," She said softly. "Well, ah, I'm sorry I snapped at you then."

"Why're you cryin'?" 

She took a regulated breath. "If you don't mind, I'd rather not discuss it."

Conchobar nodded, "I understand."

There was a moment of silence then the girl talked in a very regulated way, "I'm here because my boyfriend is missing and I think he might be in trouble. I was hoping Detective Pezzini would be able to help me." She turned on him candidly, "And why are you here?"

"Detective Pezzini is my wife," he said smiling, he couldn't help but smile every time that thought entered his mind. "She asked me to make sure you waited for her."

Another pause, "Medea is aimn dom,1" she said.

"Gaeilge," Conchobar said with raised eyebrows. He hadn't heard good Irish Gaelic for years, suddenly he was transported back to his grandmother's kitchen with the smell of fresh scones wafting through the air and his father's laughter echoing off the cracked plaster walls. "Nar lagai Dia do Iamh2!"

"Nil me'ach ag tosu'ar an teanga a fhoghlaim3," she said. 

"De reir a cheile a thogtar na caisleaim4," Conchobar said impressed. "Where'd ya learn it?"

"My friend," she said growing a little misty eyed but somehow staying miraculously composed. "The one who's missing."

"He speaks Gaelic?" Conchobar said slowly. He was starting to get the sinking feeling that he had just seen her lost 'friend.'

"Yes," she said with bitter relish. If she noticed how uncomfortable he suddenly was, he didn't say anything. "It is the only language he knows which I don't and so he uses it at every opportunity."

"Why don' you just learn it," he said, hoping to sound natural, not guilty.

She took a deep breath. "If I learn more than one language at a time I tend to confuse the grammars, and I'm so deep into Sanskrit right now that I . . ."

"Sanskrit?"

"Ancient Hindu."

"Yeah, I know. Um, how many languages d'ya know?" 

"I'm fluent in twelve and can muddle my way through fifteen more," she said casually. "I can read over fifty."

Conchobar stared at her, amazed. She looked up at him and smiled, like she was used to being gaped at when she made that confession. "I'm a doctoral candidate studying comparative linguistics at NYU."

"Oh," Conchobar said, nodding, trying not to look surprised that a girl who obviously spent a good deal of time color coordinating her outfits could also be brilliant.

"I know I don't look the type," Maddie said wisely. "That's half the fun."

"I's not tha'a'all," Conchobar said quickly. "I just can't believe such a complete education left out Gaelic, the most important language still spoken."

"Well, then, I suppose my education isn't quite complete yet."

"I should say not," Conchobar said with a smile. "I'll see that Sara find's your friend post-haste so tha' he can teach you a real language."

"Thanks," Maddie said, smiling sadly and swallowing hard as she tried not to smear her newly applied makeup by crying again. "That would be just great."

* * *

Sara was crying. She could feel hot tears streaming down her cheeks. A fire of intense hatred had been lit in her, more than she could ever have dreamed possible. Murdered, her father had been cold heatedly murdered. Not thoughtlessly gunned down, as she thought, but targeted and assassinated. And why? Because he was a good guy in a precinct full of crooks. 

"Damn," Joe said softly. "I thought this was over."

"Over?" Sara said, her voice raw. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew, Sara."

"And you just . . ." the detective was so horrified she couldn't find words.

"I just was a coward," Siri said, filling in where she couldn't. "I had a family, I saw what happened to Jim, what happened to you. I couldn't put Marie through that, and the kids."

"You let my father's murderers go," Sara said, her voice filled with more hurt than hate. 

"I'm sorry, Sara. If there were a way I could change things, I would."

"There is," Sara said. "You could talk now."

"Now?" Joe said. "They're still as deadly."

"Your wrong," Sara said. "They're more deadly. That's why you have to tell all you know. We have to bring them down!"

"Sara," Danny said kindly, putting his hand on her arm. "What exactly do you expect him to do? Who do you expect him to tell?" Sara turned to Danny, she looked confused, he decided to continue. "I'm guessing that this group you Dad is talking about, the White Bulls, you think they're the one's that killed McQueen."

"Yeah, they are," Sara said without a moment of hesitation.

"Then by your own deductions, IA isn't gonna do squat. Joe would be killed, just like your father."

"I'm not going to stay quiet, Danny. None of us can stay quiet. This has gone on for far too long. Now we have evidence, lots of it."

"What are you talking about?" Jake said. "We don't . . ."

"We have Charlene's testimony," Sara said. "She saw Orlinsiky gun her pimp down in cold blood."

"Who said Orlinsiky . . ." Danny started.

"We have this video where my father makes a detailed confession."

"Sara, all respect," Jake said nervously, because she looked about ready to gun down anyone who tried to stop this new crusade. "But your father could have been paranoid or something. I mean, he could have made all that stuff up."

"He could have, but Joe's bullet proves that he didn't."

"Joe's bullet, Sara, what are you talking about?" Jake demanded.

Sara didn't answer, she just stared at Joe. After a moment he said, very softly. "How did you know about that?"

"It proves it, it proves it all."

"Time out!" Danny said. "What bullet, what the hell are we talking about?!"

"The white bulls killed my father eighteen years ago because he was going to expose them. They gunned him down in cold blood and Joe here knew all about it, but didn't say anything to protect himself and his family. But he did find a bullet casing at the scene, didn't you Joe? Something very distinctive."

Joe nodded, ashamed, "A bullet, exactly as Jim described, with a bull engraved on it."

"The bulls have been operating for years inside the police department as profiteers, justifying murder and theft by murdering and steeling from lawbreakers. The case of Prosporo McQueen is just the latest. But they messed up. Charlene could identify the shooter and I guarantee you that, as soon as we search Orlinsky, were gonna find more bullets to match the one that killed my father."

"But Sara," Danny said, "If what you say is true, and it does make sense, but who can we tell? IA is obviously in on this, and if our witnesses were to step forward they'd be automatic targets."

"That's why we have Jake," Sara said, as if that were the most obvious answer in the world.

"What?" Danny said, laughing as he turned to look at the rookie. "Jake he's just . . ." Danny stopped because Jake had the distinct look of someone who'd been found out.

"How'd you know?" Jake asked.

"Jake you showed me your badge," Sara said, again as if this were the most obvious answer in the world.

"No, Sara, I definitely didn't show you my badge. My badge is in a safe in my apartment."

"Hold on," Danny said. "I didn't by the program, what's going on here?"

"Jake's FBI sent here undercover to expose the White Bulls."

"Sara how do you know that?" Jake said, amazed.

"Jake?" Danny asked, looking at the man he had been sure up-to-this-moment was as transparent as thin air. "FBI?"

"You can protect them, Joe and Charlene, can't you?" Sara asked.

"Ah, yeah," Jake said a little uncertainly. "I mean, if they're willing to go into protection. Sara I still don't understand . . ."

"Don't sweat it Jake," Sara snapped. "You've got your case, all the evidence you need, right here. Right?"

"Ah," Jake stuttered. "Right."

Sara took a deep breath. She looked like she was about to cry again. "Good."

Translations; 1: My name is Medea; 2: Good on you; 3: I'm only begging to learn the language; 4: It takes time to build a castle

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

(PLEASE REVIEW)


	6. Confrontation

****

Confrontation

"Ok," Jake said, flipping shut his cell phone. "It's set."

"So," Sara asked. "What's the call."

"Well," Jake sighed. "There are going to be two agents coming to protect Joe and his wife until three, when the grandkids are supposed to be picked up. At that point the agents are gonna consult the whole family on the risks and they'll make a game plan."

"Great," Danny said, "We've got Joe covered, what about Charlene?"

"You and Jake can go, pick her up, drop her off at the safe house, right?"

"Ahh, sure," Danny said. "What are you going to do?"

"I need to find Gabriel," Sara said. 

"Maybe you should stay here, Sara," Jake suggested. "Call someone else in on the Baxter case. No one's gonna think any less of you for not wanting to pick up one of your best friends."

"You don't understand," Sara said forcefully. "He didn't do this. This is a frame up, or something."

"Sara, take a step back. Look at the evidence," Jake said, trying to be the voice of reason.

"I've seen the evidence Jake," Sara snapped. "I know where it points and I'm not going down that rode. Honestly, do you believe that Gabriel could murder a girl in cold blood like that? If nothing else he's too smart to leave the body in the dumpster."

"Sara, people panic," Jake started, but he didn't get to finish.

"I can't believe that of him, and I'm not going to leave him to the wolves who could."

"Then leave him to us," Danny said, cutting through the conversation, stopping Sara and Jake's respective arguments in their tracks. "Sara, you can't see this clearly, you know that. I'm not saying that Gabriel committed a murder but he at least needs to be questioned. And the way your acting about this . . . I don't know, it just seems that if you want to be wise, you'll do all you can to avoid him."

Sara froze. She was wise, wise enough to know that when two people as dramatically different as Danny Woo and Ian Nottingham coined almost the exact same phrase that cosmic forces were talking to her. After a second of hesitation, Sara opened her mouth to answer, but before she got a word out a cell phone rang. She, Danny and Jake all pulled their phones out of their pockets, "It's me," Sara said, "the station." 

As she pushed the green button and lifted the phone to her ear, Jake stepped forward and said, "Don't tell them where we are Sara."

"Yeah, yeah," Sara said, shoeing the FBI agent away, "Pezzini."

"Gra mo chroi," the rich voice of Conchobar said, drawing a smile to her lips despite everything that had happened so far that day.

"Hey Baby," Sara cooed. "What's up?"

"Some'in came for you," he said. She hadn't noticed it when he was speaking Gaelic, but his voice sounded worried.

"Yeah? What?"

"Its, ah, from Gabriel. The secretary came in, said she found it slipped between the desk an' the garbage pail. I' says urgent, Sara."

"From Gabriel?" Sara said talking very quietly and turning away from Danny and Jake. She didn't want them to know she was talking about Gabriel, they'd probably steel the phone away from her. "What does it say?"

"Sara, i's your mail."

"We're married, legally it's half yours. Open it and tell me what it says."

There was a pause as Sara heard the crumpling of paper as Conchobar ripped through the envelope and she listened to his measured breath as he read the letter. When she couldn't wait any longer she demanded, "Well?"

"Ah, Sara," his voice sounded tense. "I's a confession."

"A confession?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Well, what is he confessing?"

"Um, ah," he said very quietly. It accrued to Sara that Maddie was probably still in the same room with him and he was trying to save the girls feelings. Sara managed to adore her wonderful husband for a heartbeat and then she started worrying about what kind of confession would call for such compassionate discretion. "Murder, Sara. Says here he murdered a girl named Dianna Baxter."

And Sara saw it. The Witchblade seized her and she was suddenly in the ally behind The Wet Monkey. She saw Dianna Baxter laughing and kissing someone who looked for all the world like Gabriel. She saw the man wrap his hands, hands with long fingers good for typing, around the girl's neck. She heard a voice that she would have sworn was Gabriel's if it hadn't been so cold and heartless, _Do you know what exsanguination is? _Baxter moaned, _Yes, yes, do it to me._ Sara tried to look away, disgusted, but the Witchblade kept her attention on the two young people. Then the voice that was so much like Gabriel's asked,_ How about Pnigophobia?_ Dianna, clearly not knowing what Pnigophobia was continued to moan, _Do it, do it!_ Sara tried to scream, tried to stop it, but she was only a watcher, she couldn't change what had already happened. And then, when it was over the man turned around and Sara gasped. The murderer didn't just resemble Gabriel, he was a mirror image. The only difference was ice blue eyes that Sara recognized all too well. 

"Sara," Conchobar's voice cut through her fugue state and drew her back to what had to be done. "Wha' are you planin' to do?"

"Save him," Sara said simply. "I'll call you back Baby, thanks."

Without another word from Conchobar, Sara flipped shut her phone and turned to Danny and Jake. "I gotta go."

"Is everything all right?" Danny asked.

"No," Sara said as she exited the Siri apartment and bounded down the stairs. "I'll meet you guys later."

"Sara," Danny yelled after her from the top of the stairwell, "Wait."

She didn't wait and she didn't even turn to answer.

* * *

Ian Nottingham watched with great interest. He believed he knew his master's plans and he despised them. Still he was bound to them, the way a slave in the ancient world would be nailed to his master's door. It was horrible agony, yet to struggle would cause greater injury. He thought about his many conversations with Sara during the time his master was more meta than physical. He had told her that she had freed him, and in truth she had. There were no more belittling remakes made with the express purpose of hurting him, there were no more orders without explanation, there were no more looks of disappointment and disgust. Ian had longed for his father's return, but at the same time had dreaded it. And now that Irons returned, Ian couldn't help but long for his absence again. That was a horrible thing to desire, Ian knew that, so as he watched Sara approach Gabriel Bowman's residence and contemplated the confrontation that was about to accrue, Ian wished with all his heart that Sara would be successful in her exorcism. If he could not be his own man, he could at least be his father's only son.

* * *

"Sara!" Conchobar yelled into the phone. "Sara!" 

The only answer was a dead line.

"Damn," he said softly.

"He confessed to murder?" Maddie said from the other side of the desk.

"Sorry," Conchobar said as he gently hung up the phone. "Din' mean for ya ta hear tha'."

"I have very good hearing," she said simply. "What is she going to do?"

Conchobar hesitated for a moment and then saw clearly exactly what she was going to do, and his blood ran cold. "Wha' color are Gabriel's eyes?"

"I don't understand what that has to do with anything," she was starting to cry again.

"Trust me, i's important. What color are his eyes?"

"Brown," she said, her voice was beginning to sound choked as fought back tears. "Like milk chocolate."

"He don' wear contacts or anythin' does he? Or, periodically, have blue eyes, by chance?"

"No," she said, opting to be annoyed at Conchobar instead of beside herself with despair. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Sara's in trouble. There's somthin' wrong with your boyfriend."

"Yeah," Maddie spat out. "He's a murderer."

"More 'n that. We gotta go stop Sara."

"I'm confused."

"I think the blue eyed bastard's gonna try 'n kill 'er. An' I think Gabriel knows."

"That doesn't help me any."

Conchobar didn't have time to explain what he had just figured out, mostly because he didn't understand what he'd just figured out. And he didn't even feel he had time to explain to the girl why he couldn't explain anything. He grabbed her arm and pulled her off the chair.

"We've gotta find your Gabriel 'for my wife does."

* * *

"Gabriel," Sara said, pounding on the heavy steel door. "Let me in!"

"It's open Sara," A soft voice said behind her.

Sara pivoted and saw Nottingham only a few inches behind her. "God!" She gasped. "What are you doing here?!"

"I don't think," Ian said slowly. "That God is here at all."

Sara sighed, "What are _you_ doing here Nottingham."

Ian looked hurt, as if her question was unreasonable and mean spirited. "I'm protecting you Sara."

Sara actually managed to laugh, "Form Gabriel?"

"Unless I am mistaken the man in there intends to kill you."

"The man in there? Are you saying this is a trap."

"Of course it is Sara," Ian asked, a little baffled. "Couldn't you tell?"

"So," Sara said, feeling more confident than she had ten seconds ago, "They framed Gabriel to lead me here."

"Essentially, yes. But then again, fundamentally no."

Sara was not about to ask Ian what he meant by that. "So is he a hostage?"

"Again Sara the answer is essentially yes, fundamentally no."

"Ok," Sara asked, she never had much patience for Nottinghams riddles but this was truly the wrong time. "Ian, please, cut the crap. I need to know, is he alive?"

"In almost all meanings of the word."

"I'll take that as a Yes," Sara said firmly, as if her tone of voice could convince her one way or the other. "So all I have to do is save him, right? No problem, I've done that before."

"Sara," Nottingham said, his voice sounded worried. "You do not know your opponent. You have no strategy for your battle. You acknowledge that this is a trap and yet you walk into it."

"With my eyes open," Sara said. "Besides, you got my back."

Ian bowed his head. "This is one battle, Sara, where I am unable to choose sides. I truly wish you victory, but aid you I can not."

"But you told me . . ." Sara started.

"I told you the door was open," Nottingham said before stepping back and folding himself into the shadows. Sara let the shivers fly up her spine and then, with a deep breath, turned back to the door and, for a second, contemplated what would be behind it. She didn't know. But she wasn't going to go in unarmed. With barley a thought the Witchblade activated and wrapped itself around her hand. She threw open the door, ready for an assault of gunfire and was startled to find nothing. 

Gabriel's show room looked empty. Everything, from slime to the sublime was neatly shelved, as always, and with the possible exception of needing a good dusting, everything was as it should be.

"Gabriel?" Sara called into the stillness. "Hello?"

"Ah, Sara," the boys voice said slowly from the back room where his computers lived. "I was wondering when you would arrive. I knew it would only be a matter of time."

The little hairs on the back of Sara's neck stood on end as she very slowly, very carefully, walked towards the voice. It was Gabriel's voice, she knew that, but it didn't sound like him at all. This voice was cold and hard.

"So," Sara said, trying to sound conversational. "You killed Dianna Baxter."

"Yes, Sara, I did."

She'd reached the edge of the display room and was standing causally in the doorway looking in on him as he stared back at her in a self-satisfied way that made her want to draw her gun. His retro-1970's shirt was tucked in, every button buttoned. He was wearing sunglasses, presumably to hide the black eye Sara could see creeping out around the sides of the shades. The split lip, on the other hand, was harder to mask. Sara decided not to ask.

"I warped my hands around her neck," Gabriel continued, his voice dripped malice and venom. "And as she moaned in ecstasy I watched what light there was behind her horrified eyes dim and then vanish."

"Moaned in ecstasy?" Sara asked. "Pretty sure of yourself aren't you?"

Gabriel seemed somewhat disappointed that Sara was not taking this more seriously.

"I know what I heard," the boy said, not quite able to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"You realize that she's been a hooker since she was fourteen. I imagine she's figured out how to moan just right by now."

Gabriel changed the subject.

"You don't seem very surprised Sara, by my confession."

"I'm not. We've got you flirting with her on the club's surveillance tape. We've got your written confession. Hell, we've got your DNA. We know you did it Gabriel. I want to know why."

"Why, Sara? Isn't the answer obvious?" 

"To get me here?"

"More or less."

"I would have come no matter what. I'm your friend."

"I suppose that's true," Gabriel mused. "In which case I killed her because I wanted to."

Sara nodded. "Makes sense."

"Detective, you surprise me. You have just heard one of your dearest friends confess to committing a most heinous murder, are you not moved?"

Sara laughed softly and leaned against the doorframe. "You know, this whole murder thing, you hurt a lot of people."

"Please, I do not wished to be bored by trivial stories about a mother's tears."

"Actually, I didn't get the feeling that Mr. and Mrs. Baxter were that torn up. I was thinking about Maddie."

"Maddie?" Gabriel sounded confused. Sara felt herself smile just a tad, her suspicion's were confirmed and her fears and doubts had been relieved. Whoever this person was, it wasn't Gabriel.

"Yeah," she said. "She's down a the station crying her eyes out on Conchobar's shoulders."

"Ah, Conchobar," the boy said. "Your lover."

"My husband."

"And just how long do you think that will last, Sara? Do you think he'll understand the Witchblade. Do you think he'll still love you as soon as he learns what you really are?"  
"He knows who I really am," Sara said calmly. "You on the other hand . . ."

"I know you perfectly Sara," there was a pause and then chuckle that was subtle and evil and sounded nothing like Gabriel. "I am your best friend."

"Danny's my best friend," Sara said calmly. "You were someone I thought I needed, someone useful, someone I can replace." That was a lie if she'd ever told one. There had been a time, a very very short time, when she had solely thought of Gabriel as useful. There has been a period where, had he disappeared it would have been an inconvenience, but she was fairly sure someone else would be able to tell her the things she needed to know. But those feelings had changed a long time ago. Now she felt like Gabriel was part of the Witchblade, an essential add-on, like gas in a car. She knew she couldn't get very far without him. Still, to test the man in front of her, and to try and convince herself that she could, if she had to, attack him, she lied. "I don't need you anymore. I can find someone less psychotic do to my homework."

"Very pragmatic, Sara. I always thought you'd be more sentimental than that."

"I guess you don't know me perfectly," Sara said with a slim smile.

At that moment the door swung open again. Both Sara and Gabriel turned in surprise to see Conchobar, with Maddie behind him. "Teann a-null!2" Conchobar shouted at Gabriel. Sara turned her head, wondering why he had come in yelling Gaelic. 

"Ah," Gabriel laughed, if he'd understood a word of what Conchobar had said he didn't let it show. "So the Calvary has come. The noble Conchobar who fate allowed a second chance and a mysterious young girl who's role is insignificant at best. Are these the saviors you were waiting for Sara? Your backup? You would have done better to bring your police friends, Woo and McCarty, inept thought they may be."

"An bhfuil tu Gabriel?3" Conchobar demanded, not letting Sara push him out of the way.

"If you expect an answer, Bard, speak a language I know," the boy said, spitefully. 

"Pog mo thoin4," Conchobar spit. Then turning to his wife said, "Tha's no' your friend, Sara. If 'e was 'e would'a said so. I's somethin' else."

Maddie, as if Sara and Conchobar were only having a lover's quarrel, approached Gabriel fearlessly. "Pyubvnik5,what's going on? Are you ok?" 

Gabriel turned his head and looked at Medea curiously. "And what are you, pray tell? An innocent, perhaps, a pawn? Meat for the beast?"

"Gabriel," she said, her voice was shaking. "What are you saying?"

That's when Sara noticed the girl's approach. "Maddie, get away from him, he's not . . ."

But it was too late. Gabriel jumped out of his chair and pounced on the girl before Sara could move to stop him. Before Maddie could react her arm was twisted painfully behind her and a very ornate knife was pressed against her throat as Gabriel used her as a human shield, insurance in case Sara wanted to try her luck with a gun. 

"Gabriel," Maddie whimpered, struggling as much as she could without breaking her arm or slicing her own throat. 

"Irons," Sara said softly. As the boy had grabbed Maddie she'd managed to nock his sunglasses off, reveling cold blue eyes. And more than that, his right hand, which was pressing the knife against Maddies neck, had an unmistakable scare of two overlapping circles. "What have you done to him?"

"Very good Sara," Irons said with Gabriel's voice. "It's about time you realized."  
"What have you done to him?!" Sara demanded again.

"Are you concerned about your acquiescent friend? You should be more concerned about yourself Sara. After all, I would have no desire to lose such a useful tool. You, however, have grown very tiresome."

"Let her go and we'll talk."

"About what, pray tell? Compromise is not an option for either of us. But you know that."

"What do you want?"

"You know what I want."

"The Witchblade?"

"Yes, the Witchblade, on the wrist of someone who I can control. Are you willing to give that to me Sara, in exchange for Gabriel's freedom?"

Sara licked her lips. "I don't trust you."

"How about in exchange for this girls life?" With the smallest flick of his wrist Gabriel's hands tilted the knife and nicked Maddie's chin, drawing blood. The girl screamed and then quickly reverted to sobs as blood trickled down her neck and stained her dress. 

"Irons don't!" Sara said, putting her hands up where he could see them. The Witchblade was still drawn, but had reverted to it's most benign form, a simple web across her hand, no one knew it was active but her. 

"Do you like this knife, Sara?" Gabriel's twisted voice went on. "I took the time to find it this afternoon, after your husband came in with the wedding present Ian sent you."

Sara glanced at Conchobar, who was standing slightly in front of her and to her right. He looked just as horrified as she felt, and just a little guilty. He had, after all, taken Maddie out of the safety of the station and brought her here.

"Do you know the story of that blade, Sara?"

"Yeah," Sara said, her mouth was very dry and she thought she could hear uncertainty in her voice. "It belonged to some Irish Queen named Cathain."

"Cathain was not just 'some Irish queen' as you so crudely put it. She was a true wielder, Sara, she wore the Witchblade and with it won many a battle."

"Good for her," Sara said. "I don't see what that has to do with our present situation."

"That is because you are blind," Gabriel's voice spat. "I was inspired by Ian's generosity and have decided my wedding give to you will be this knife. It was given to Joan of Arch by the Daulphain himself, legend has it that she wore it in every battle, and yet never drew it out of the scabbard. This young girl's blood could very well be the first shed by this blade. "

"Lucky Maddie," Sara quipped.

"If you come and get it, I will let her go."

"Sara," Conchobar said softly, although they were all very close and Irons could most likely hear, "He's gonna stab you."

"He's got a knife, I've got a gun," Sara said between clenched teeth. "I think I'll win." Louder she said, "Alright, let her go."

"You will accept the knife in the spirit with which it is given?"

"I can take whatever you give me, Irons. Let her go."

Gabriel's mouth twitched into a smile momentarily and then with one smooth move he threw Maddie away from him with enough force to send her colliding with a wall. She crumpled onto the floor and didn't move to get up. She was alive though, the muffled sounds of sobs were the only sounds in the room.

Sara, with her arms, still held up as if to surrender, took a step closer to her best friend who was, at the moment, also her worst enemy. "Alright Irons," she challenged. "You think you can take me, come on."

"Sara," Conchobar hissed. He was ignored.

"You will not harm your beloved Gabriel."

"I know Gabriel pretty well," Sara said with conviction. "He'd rather be dead than have you running around in his body killing people."

"Be that as it may, you could not be the one to administer such mercy's."

Sara smiled a hard, determined smile. "Try me," she said, hoping that he wouldn't notice the way her voice faltered, and the edges of her lips trembled, and her eyes were blinking furiously.

Several things seemed to happen at once and even Sara, who usually was gifted with uncanny perception, could only make an educated guess about the actual sequence of events. 

Gabriel's body charged Sara with what seemed like supernatural speed, Joan of Arch's blade was pointing directly to her heart. It's possible that Conchobar tried to step in the way, be stabbed instead of Sara, and then she pushed him aside with such force that he fell onto the ground because, in any event, he was on the floor yelling "Sara!" Gabriel's warped voice was also yelling "Sara!" Without consciously realizing it or even subconsciously willing it, the Witchblade on Sara's wrist sprung into action and then there was a horrible scream. Horrible because it was two distinct voices screaming out of one throat and then the scream stopped suddenly, as if all the air to carry the sound waves had vanished. And then the only sound was the clatter of a legendary knife ringing as it hit the floor.

Translations; 

Love of my heart

2 get away from her

3 are you Gabriel?

4 kiss my ass

5 Lover (in bulgarian)

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

(PLEASE REVIEW)


	7. Induce

****

Induce

"Sara," Gabriel choked. His eyes were soft and brown and hazy with pain. 

Sara gasped in horror at what she had done. She withdrew the Witchblade, but as the mettle passed through Gabriel's body a second time the boy shuddered and blood started streaming out of his mouth. He pitched forward and Sara caught him, for what good it would do. She had just impaled him, the blade entered the chest in the spot below where the right and left ribs meet straight through out his back.

His blood was everywhere.

He was going to die.

* * *

"Hey Orlinsky!" Jake yelled across the bar. "I've been lookin' all over for you."  
"It's my lunch break," Orlinsky said, clearly annoyed. "So if this has anything to do with work, let it be for another twenty minuets, will ya?" As he spoke he continued to shovel soggy French fries into his mouth. He clearly was not going to be interrupted for anything. 

Jake laughed as he slid into the stool next to the veteran detective, "Yeah, work. I actually needed to ask you about the Prosporo McQueen case."

"Who?" Orlinsky asked casually, but Jake noticed he'd put down a fry that was half way to his mouth.

"This guy named McQueen. Pimp, total asshole, everyone and their mother wanted him offed."

"What do I know about it?" Orlinsky asked. He'd picked up the greasy salami sandwich that shared the plate with his fries, but he didn't start to lift it to his mouth.

"Gee, I don't know," Jake said gamely. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Get out of here rookie," Orlinsky said. "You're starting to annoy me."

"I'm serious here, Orlinsky," Jake said, loosing his cocky attitude. "Remember, your talking to a cop. What do you know about the Prospero McQueen murder?"

Orlinsky laughed, though not convincingly. "Don't try to intimidate me, McCarty. You don't have the balls to carry out your pathetic threats."

"Maybe not the balls," Jake said, letting a smile creep onto his face. "But I got the badge." Jake reached into his leather jacket and pulled out his FBI badge and tossed it on the bar as casually as if they were playing poker and he'd just upped the antae on a bet. 

"What's that?" Orlinsky asked, he put his sandwich down without taking a bite.

"Proof that I'm an FBI agent," Jake said. "Detective Orlinsky, you're under arrest on charges of Murder and conspiracy."

"What the . . ." Orlinsky said, moving to get up. 

Before he was off the stool Jake had a handcuff on his left arm and was twisting it behind his back. The detective was smart enough to know that resisting arrest only made things worse, so he didn't struggle as Jake lead him out of the bar and recited "You have the right to remain silent . . ."

* * *

"Oh God Gabriel!" Sara said, lowering her friend to the floor, her mind overrun with guilt, fear, and panic. "Don't . . . don't be afraid . . . it's, it's gonna," her throat started to constrict and tears were running down her cheeks. She didn't really believe what she was going to say next. "It'll be ok."

"God, Sara . . ." Conchobar's hoarse voice said from somewhere behind and above her as his hand appeared on her shoulder. 

"If I were you," Ian Nottingham's thick smooth voice said from somewhere in front of and above her. "I would call an Ambulance."

Sara looked up and saw Ian, dressed all in black, hovering in front of her. She couldn't help but think he looked like Death.

"Who are . . ." Conchobar started to ask.

"This boy is bleeding to death, rather rapidly I might ad," Ian snapped. "You can either watch him die or try to save him."

"Baby," Sara said lifting one of her hands, which were both covered with blood, up to squeeze the hand he'd placed on her shoulder, "Call nine-one-one." 

"Aye," her husband said softly, squeezing her hand back as he looked around the cluttered storeroom. "Ah, a phone?"

"Here," Sara said, reaching into the pocket of her leather jacket and pulling out her cell-phone. Conchobar took it and, wandered away from the scene as he dialed. Sara turned to back to Gabriel, who was also staring at Nottingham as if he were Death. There was blood. So much blood. The Witchblade had made a very clean cut through an area that was not terribly vital, that is to say she cleanly missed the heart and the lungs. He could get better, she believed that, if she could only stop the blood.

"Maddie!" Sara yelled with a harsh edge to her voice. The girl looked up from her terrified sobbing very cautiously. What she saw obviously horrified her, because she started sucking air in short gasps and was visibly trembling. "Get a grip on yourself," Sara ordered harshly. "Gabriel's dying I need your help!"

The girl put her hand over her mouth, as if to hold back her sobs, and nodded.

"I need towels, lots of them. We have to stop the bleeding."

The girl nodded again, here brown eyes were wide open and unfocused. Sara recognized that the girl was probably in shock, severely traumatized. But she seemed to be aware enough to climb to her feet and wonder off towards the bathrooms. Whether or not she would have the presence of mind to wander back with towels was another question. "Conchobar," Sara said. "Follow her, make sure she's ok. Bring back towels."

Her husband nodded, and continued talking to the operator as he followed Maddies somewhat dazed steps, "Ah, ah, yeah. . . . no I'm no' exactly sure it was all kinda quick . . . Tha's right, I said impaled, like, in one side an out the other. . . . No, we took it out, 's tha' bad? . . . yeah, he's still alive . . ."

"Death is a loving mistress, she caresses us all before finally pulling us into her eternal embrace," Nottingham mused. "It is only those who resist the seduction, who fear her power, who feel pain."

Sara ignored Nottingham's ramblings. "Don't worry, Sweetie," Sara cooed, leaning over Gabriel and looking him in the eyes. He stared back up at her. Every breath was a battle, trickles of blood streamed out of his mouth. He was in too much pain to speak, but he didn't have to. His eyes said everything: he was in pain, he was afraid, and most of all, he was sorry. "Everything's gonna be alright." she said, petting his face. "I'm not gonna let you die." 

* * *

Danny knocked on the door to room 17. He could feel several sets of eyes boring into the back of his head. He was most uncomfortable about the eyes of the neighbors. This place was known to be a, as Vicky Po would put it, spank-me-by-the-hour motel. He was a man, alone, who'd just gotten out of a very nice car calling on a single girl who's entire wardrobe could be described in one word: skanky. The obvious conclusions would be drawn, and Danny couldn't keep his cheeks from burning as he thought about that.

The second set of eyes may or may not have been there, he didn't know. But the very possibility made his palms sweat. They were the eyes of the white bulls. Corrupt cops who'd been watching Charlene to see if she leaked what she knew. People ready to kill her just to erase her secrets, people willing to kill him too, because she might have told him. Those eyes, which were probably imaginary, frightened him.

The last two sets of eyes, however, made him feel safe enough to go on. These were the eyes of two FBI agents, Ford and Deeter, who had driven him in an unmarked black suddan to this little lovely hotel and were, quite literally, watching his back. At least, he thought, if the white bulls got him, the Feds would get them. It wasn't a terribly comforting thought.

The door didn't open, but a voice came from the other side of the door as, Danny imagined, a cautious eye peeked through the peep-hole.

"Go away detective," Charlene said. "I told you all I'm gonna."

"Come on sweetie," Danny said rather loudly, hoping the neighbors would interpret his words differently than she would. "I'm not gonna hurt you, and you'll be well rewarded for what you do."

"They'll kill me."

"I told you, you won't get hurt."

"You can't protect me."

"I've got friends, they've got resources. Come on, I swear, it'll be worth your time."  
There was a pause and then a click and a thud as the bolt was undone. The door opened a crack, still the chain was done and the girl's body was safely behind the wall to the left of the door. He could only see the right side of her face. 

"You said you'd only come to me if you could protect me," she whispered.

"I can," he said softly. "The black car, about ten feet away, there are two FBI agents in there. They'll take us to their headquarters where we've got the guy who shot your pimp in custody. You testify against him and you'll be ushered into the witness protection program. Got it?"

"I, ah . . ."

"Just come with me," Danny insisted. "Pretend I'm just another loser hiring you for a ride in the car."

"I'm not sure."

"Charlene," Danny said, his voice soft but determined. "If I were going to kill you I'd have done it by now. I'm here to help, but you have to trust me."

The girl took a deep, shaky breath, "Alright. I just need . . ."

"Nothing, you need nothing," Danny insisted. "Agents will come by later and clean up the room. We have to make this look like an ordinary pick up, ok."

Charlene nodded and closed the door. For a horrible second Danny thought she'd changed her mind. But then the door opened again and the girl steeped out and walked confidently over to the car with Danny right beside her. And he opened the door and ushered her in before slipping in himself.

As agent Deeter speed away and Agent Forbs carefully explained to Charlene what they were going to do and her part in it, Danny realized that no one was watching him. He leaned back and sighed in relief.

* * *

"Gabriel Bowman's problem, Sara, is that he's a lover, not a fighter," Ian said as he hovered over her. She ignored him. With Conchobar guiding her, Maddie had brought back an armful of towels, which Sara was now trying to use to stop the blood that seemed to be pouring out of her best friend. Maddie had curled into a corner and was rocking back and forth, whimpering. Conchobar was waiting outside for the ambulance, when he'd left he'd given Ian a vicious look but the circumstances allowed little more. 

"Come on, Sweetie," Sara begged, looking into Gabriel's eyes intently. She was terrified that if she looked away, even for a second, when she looked back his eyes would be lifeless and dull. "Just keep breathing, that's all you gotta do. Just breath."

"If he were a fighter," Ian said, accenting his monologue with the subtle ring of a sword being unsheathed. "He would have had weapons. He would have had tactics. He would have had a means to fight back."

"Focus on me, Gabriel," Sara said. "Listen to my voice, you're going to be alright."

"Irons took over and the boy offered no resistance, just as he offered no resistance as you slid the Witchblade through his chest."

"Hold on, sweetie," Sara said, drawing her hand compassionately across his face before raising her head and turning her attention to Ian, who stood over her examining a rappier critically. "Nottingham what the hell are you . . ."

"I'm protecting you Sara. And because I can not bear to see you suffer any more than you already have, I am protecting him."

"By pulling out a sword?" Sara demanded. "You expect us to be attacked by buccaneers?"

Ian smiled and almost laughed, "No Sara, I'm protecting you from suspicion."

Nottingham picked up one of Sara's discarded towels that was soaked in blood and wrapped it around the swords blade. He then extended the hilt to Sara. "Draw the blade," he said.

"What?"

"They are going to want to know what injured him, and unlike your previous fights with villains and cutthroats, you will not be able to shrug your shoulders and claim ignorance. This blade is the same size, approximately, as the Witchblade, and now it is covered in his blood."

"And my fingerprints!"

"Sara, someone had to draw the blade from him after he fell on it."

Sara stared at it and swallowed hard. It seemed so petty, so awful, to worry about proving herself guiltless, to construct a lie, and explain away Gabriel's injuries as he was bleeding to death on the floor in front of her. Sara hesitated.

"Sara for your own protection," Ian insisted.

"Sara . . ." Gabriel's weak breath choked out. 

Sara gasped, the rest of the world stopped as she leaned forward to listen to him whisper. "I'm right here, Hon, I'm right here."

"Take the sword," he whispered. His voice was a web of pain, each word he managed to say obviously took great deal of effort, more blood flowed out of the corners of his mouth. "You need to save yourself."

"Oh Gabriel," Sara sobbed, to wrapped in her own grief and fear to pay much attention to what he actually had said.

"Grant the dying man his last request," Ian said, kneeling down so that, if Sara were to look at him, they would be eye to eye. "Save yourself."

Sara took a second and glanced at the dark man, and then, with spiteful determination, she grabbed the hilt of the saber and with one smooth movement pulled it away from Ian, through the blood soaked towel and tossed it across the room, where it landed with a klang.

"Thanks," Gabriel said so softly that Sara almost didn't hear him. The light behind his eyes seemed to be fading, his breath seemed to be weakening, and his will to live, now that he knew Sara would be all right, was ebbing away. "You're needed."

"I'm," Sara choked. "I'm needed? Gabriel I need . . ."

And that's when two very strong arms pulled her away from her closest friend an placed her in the arms of her husband. The paramedics had arrived. Two men and a woman descended on the dying boy and the room seemed suddenly full of medical jargon.

"You," Sara muttered softly as Conchobar wrapped his arms around her. She didn't turn to look at him, she just continued to stare at Gabriel as the paramedics surrounded him. "Gabriel, I need you."

"'S all right," Conchobar whispered as he held her close to him. "Th' doctors'll take care of 'im."

"He's gonna die," Sara muttered, burring her head in her husbands chest.

"No," Conchobar said. "It'll be ok."

"Excuse me," one of the Medics said. He was a large black man with big trustworthy hands. His white shirt, stained red with Gabriel's blood, had the name Leonard embroidered over the right breast pocket. "What happened to the instrument that impaled him?"  
"Ah . . ." Conchobar stuttered, "We . . . well . . ."

Sara pushed herself away from her husband and wiped the tears off her cheeks with bloody hands. She was a police detective and she knew how to act at a crime scene. "Here," She said, her voice thin and stretched. "I, think I, ah, I threw it over here."

She stumbled away from her husband, leading the medic over to the sword Ian had so cleverly prepared. "He was," she started to say, then her voice caught. She hoped it sounded like grief, not like she was trying to construct a believable story of how an intelligent human being could impale himself. 

"Showin' us this sword," Conchobar said, quickly guessing at the lie that had been staged. "And I'm not exactly sure how, but he tripped and it . . . ah . . ." Conchobar motioned with his hands, giving the general impression of a long sharp thing going through his body. 

"Why did you pull it out?"

"I wasn't thinking," Sara said quickly. Conchobar didn't know that her bloody fingerprints were all over the hilt. "I guess I thought, you know, if we got it out quick enough it wouldn't have happened or something."

"Now, are you his family?"

"Ah," Conchobar said, "No."

"I'm detective Sara Pezzini," Sara said, pulling out her badge. "I'm a friend of Gabriel's."

"Alright, Detective," Leonard said, sounding a little less coddling and a little more professional. "Here's the situation, the kid's alive but loosing blood fast. He just passed out."

"God," Sara said, taking a shaky breath.

"Keep your cool, detective," Leonard said, holding his hands out as if to show that he was defenseless against any onslaught that Sara could throw at him. "The damage is minimal considering the type of injury. As far as we can tell nothing vital was punctured, but we have to get him to the hospital stat."

"Yeah," Sara said, nodding, trying not to cry. 

"We're gonna cart him over to St. John's. If you want to ride along detective, you're welcome."

"Really," Sara asked, a little stunned. "Can I?"

"Yeah," Leonard said, smiling. "That way if he wakes up he can see your pretty face instead of this ugly mug." Behind him, the other two paramedics already had him on a cart and were starting to carry it to the ambulance. 

"I gotta stay with him, baby," Sara said, turning around and grabbing her husbands hands. "I know if I leave him, he's gonna die."

"Sara," Conchobar said, his brow furrowed with worry. "You're not a doctor. You can't save him."

"I can't let him die," she said with conviction before kissing him on the cheek and then turning and following Leonard out of Gabriel's blood stained apartment and into the ambulance.

* * *

"That's him," Charlene said, hugging herself tightly so that her trembling would be a little less pronounced. 

Danny put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Now you're sure. Absolutely sure."

The girl nodded. "He shot Prospero. He said he didn't want to pay, said he wasn't 'no 5-0 slave.' I guess he was thinkin' if the PD really wanted to stop him they could arrest him legally, but he wasn't gonna go bankrupt to fill some corrupt cop's wallet. And then he shot him."

"Ok, Charlene," Danny said, taking a deep breath. "That's just great."

"He can't see me, can he?"

"No."

"What if he knows it's me anyways? What if he figures it out."  
"Charlene," Jake said seriously. "We're the Fed's. We can protect you."

"I don't get why the FBI cares so much about Prosporo. He was just an ordinary Pimp." 

"We think dirty cops, like Detective Orlinsky over there, who've been killing pimps and drug dealers for . . ." Jake started. He didn't finish though, because the girls eyes suddenly went wide, as if she'd just had an epiphany. 

"You don't know any more about this, do you?" Danny asked.

"This is about the white bulls, isn't it?" Charlene asked.

"How'd you know that?" Jake asked suspiciously.

"You think they just took their bribes in cash, do you?" she asked, as if she were surprised by their naivete. "We girls had'ta sleep with them all the time. An' some of them talk."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," Danny sighed.

"The stuff Bruno said about what they did . . ."

"Wait, wait," Jake said, holding his hands up. "Captain Bruno Dante?"

The girl nodded, but her eyes were worried. Her expression was that of a very little girl, and it seemed to say 'did I do something wrong.'

Jake took a deep breath, "Charlene, are you willing to testify in court about what Captain Dante did and said as well as what Orlinsky did to your pimp? And identify any of the other dirty cops that you've . . . um . . . known?"

Charlene shook her head emphatically, "They'll kill me."

"No they won't," Danny said, looking the girl straight in the eyes. "These men have been living as if the law doesn't apply to them. It does. From this moment on they will not be able to get away with anything, especially murder."

"Really?" the girl sounded hopeful. Danny imagined the past few weeks must have been a nightmare of looking over her shoulder and panicking every time she saw a blue uniform or heard a siren. 

"You bet," Jake said in his cavalier surfer dude way. "That's what we do."

* * * 

Leonard the paramedic was focusing on Gabriel's vital signs. The little monitors inside the ambulance showed a heart rate that seemed hopelessly week and his breathing was so shallow it was practically invisible. Sara couldn't help but think that Leonard was paying so much attention to them because he expected them to stop at any minuet and he wanted to be ready. 

"Can I hold his hand?" Sara asked softly.

"Uh," Leonard said, glancing away from the monitors for a fraction of a second. "Yeah, just don't disturb the IV."

Sara reached out and took the boy's left hand. It was caked with blood, just like hers. He had, Sara noticed, long fingers, neatly trimmed nails with the remnants of black nail polish a couple weeks old. She stroked the smooth back of his hand and contemplated the scar on the back of his other hand. It was still there. Kenneth Irons was still in him. 

Her mind drifted back to what Ian had told her; that Gabriel had been victimized, had been used, because he did not have a weapon to fight Irons with. She looked down at his face and wondered what kind of weapon could he use. Sara knew Irons well enough to know that, even if she killed him, and not with the Witchblade but with her gun, he would find a way to stay inside of Gabriel. He was that damn tenacious. No, this was a problem for another world, another plain. It was a battle, but not of flesh and blood but of essence. Gabriel's essence was being trapped, tortured, maybe eventually destroyed by the essence of Kenneth Irons. But what type of weapon, Sara wonder, could an essence wield? When the answered dawned on her it seemed painfully obvious: the Witchblade. It kept Irons alive, it kept her alive, maybe it could keep him alive as well. She knew that he wasn't supposed to wield it, men could not wield it, but maybe, if she was holding his hand, if she was with him, maybe they could fight together, maybe it wouldn't kill him. But, she mused as she slipped the bracelet off of her hand, he was practically dead anyways, and it was better to go down fighting than to be subject to the evil whims of Kenneth Irons. As she slipped the Witchblade on to her friend's wrist, she hoped he felt the same way.

TO BE CONTINUED . . . (don't forget to review!!!)


	8. Manumit

****

Manumit

Ian watched his master in the rearview mirror. Kenneth Irons was nervous and frustrated.

"I can not believe you let the boy be so seriously injured," Irons said furiously. "Did I not instruct you to keep him alive at all cost?" 

"Even at the cost of Sara Pezzini's life?"

"Of course," Irons said sharply. "You should know by now that my orders are not a matter for interpretation, but rather a directive to follow to the letter."

"I'm sorry."

"Your inept," Irons spat. "Rare has been the command which you have obeyed correctly and rarer still the obligation which you have fulfilled completely since my return."

Ian had no way to reply to that. He stayed silent.

"You are to follow the ambulance carrying Mr. Bowman to the hospital and from there you are to . . ." 

Ian never received further instructions. Irons' voice seemed to catch in his throat and his eyes lost focus. 

"Master," Ian called, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice. "Mister Irons? . . . Father?"

There was no answer, but then, as Ian contemplated it, he didn't really expect one. The Witchblade, for whatever reason, had summoned him. And a summons by the true blade could not be refused.

* * *

It was cold. This fact struck her as odd. She had been in the realm of the Witchblade before, in some senses she never left it, but this was the first time the plane of darkness and light, smoke and shadows had ever chilled her. She wrapped the white silken cloak that covered her armor more tightly around her, more out of habit than practicality, and examined the landscape. She hadn't expected to be here alone. That was very troubling. 

But there was nothing to do but wait and have faith that her plan would work. So the true wielder squared her shoulders and did just that. Her wait was not along one. Soon from the darkness, the smoke curling around him, Kenneth Irons emerged. He had a haughty smile on his face and a cold, deadly look in his eyes.

"Sara, what a pleasure."

The True Wielder smiled at him, knowingly. "You have to know, you were not brought here for your pleasure."

"But I shall take it, regardless," he said confidently.

"Where is my guiding angel?"

"As I understand it, Gabriel Bowman is dyeing in an ambulance of a wound you gave him yourself, Sara."

"This is a world of truth," the True wielder said. "Of essence. Here you cannot lie, you cannot deceive, and you cannot conceal."

"If that is the case why did you ask the question?"

"Because I wanted to hear your answer," Sara said simply. "My Angel is behind you."

Irons turned, surprised to find that the crumbled, beaten and bloodied form of Gabriel Bowman was indeed behind him. But as the True Wielder walked past the confused, corrupt man, she saw something different. She didn't just see Gabriel Bowman, she saw Michel Parks a bookish English librarian who wrote so many letters to Elizabeth Bronte that her German lover became jealous. She saw Father Raphelle, a young French priest who followed Joan on all her crusades, hearing her confessions and imparting spiritual advice and comfort. She saw the Bard Iul, who sang in king Conchobar's court every night to please the queen Cathain. She saw Mal'ak, a Babylonian scribe who had a tendency to wander through the forests and was the only man to know the resting place of the Goddess Sehren. And she saw others. A young Greek philosopher, an uninspired Ligonare, a continually distracted monk, an ambitious printer, a mysterious hermit, a kind shawman. He had been and was all these things, just as Sara Pezzini had been and was every wielder of the blade, Gabriel Bowman had been and was every wielder's guide. 

"You came?" His voice was cracked and strained from pain. He was crumpled on the ground because he didn't have the strength to stand, heavy shackles with chains attached to weight lost in the fog pulled his wrists and ankles down and an iron collar kept the boy from lifting his head and looking her in the eyes

"Of course I came, Angel," the True wielder said gently and affectionately as she knelt down so she could look him in the eyes. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises but his soft brown bloodshot eyes were clear, hopeful and thankful. He was trying to smile at her, but it seemed as if his face had forgotten how, it was lopsided and somewhat pathetic. She put her soft hands on his rough, bloody cheek in an effort to comfort him but as soon as their skin touched she was overwhelmed with his grief, his fear, his pain. She pulled her hand away quickly; in the plane of essence and truth his emotions were strong enough to burn. Drawing her hand up to her mouth she tried not to sob, still, tears started cascading down her cheeks. 

"Are you ok?" the Angel asked softly, edging himself forward a little. With great effort he reached out with his right hand, bruised and battered though it was, it did not bear a scar of two intertwining circles, the mark of the Witchblade. 

His gesture was clear. He wanted to comfort her. He'd suffered so deeply and greatly that his very essence was a portrait of pain, but sill _he_ wanted to comfort _her_. She laughed at the absurdity of it. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I am not ok. Someone has stolen my best friend, put him in shackles, tortured him, and the whole time I was blind to it. I'm most defiantly not ok." She took a deep breath of the cold air and reached out to him. Her eyes locked on his as she put her hands on his shoulders and let the burning intensity of his emotions wash over her. With strength and tenderness she lifted the boy off the ground and onto his feet. "Stand strong," she told him softly. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," he said, smiling. He was getting better at it, this time both the corners of his mouth were pointed in a generally upward direction. "You're here."

Sara smiled back at him, touched his cheek again, and then turned to face Irons. "This ends now." She said, her voice was as sharp and solid as the blade she'd just drawn from her scabbard.

"Sara," Irons said with a malicious smile. "You know the blade can not hurt me."

"Is that what you want, Kenneth?" the True Wielder asked. "To be untouchable, unsusceptible, beyond the grasp of pain or death?"

"Immortality is the dream of every man. I am just the first to realize it."

"You've realized nothing," Sara said. "You have not cheated death, just avoided her. Death is not a mistress who gives up the pursuit. She will find you."

"But she will not be administered by your hands," Irons spat. His hands were clenched in fists and his face was red, he was furious because she had just told him the truth.

"Perhaps not," The True wielder said with a sly smile, as if she knew exactly how and when death would find the man before her. "But you will leave this place, and you will never come back."

"You can not banish me," Irons said, holding his head up proud of every little victory he managed. "I may not be a wielder, but I have worn the Witchblade none the less. This realm is open to me."

The True Wielder's smile did not fade. "How did imprisoning my Angel help you in you bid for immortality?"

"Gabriel Bowman was a convenient pawn," Irons said casually. "I intended to use him to kill you so that the Witchblade would be free to find another wielder."

"One who you could control."

Irons nodded, "Unfortunately things did not go in my favor, this time."

"You intend to use him again?"

"I find that having an alter ego is very . . . liberating."

"This is your last chance. Leave him be, and you can go."

"This war between us has become a very personal affair, Sara," Irons said. The cold air almost crackled with intensity. "I relish every victory and will not give away my gains."

"Then I will have to take them from you," the True Wielder said simply.

Irons laughed, "You know the Witchblade can not harm me, Sara."

"I know," The True Wielder said, turning so that Irons was on her left and her Angel on her right. "You crave Immortality because you are afraid to die. What you do not know, Kenneth, is that to be eternal you must embrace death. I've lived and died a thousand times, as has my Angel."

"Gabriel Bowman is just a boy," Irons said, furiously. "He will not live forever."

"My Angel," the True Wielder said, raising her blade. "Is Loyalty." With a smooth movement she arched the grate sword and there was a loud clang that echoed throughout the empty plane. A shower of sparks flowed from the point where the Wielder's weapon had touched the boy's bonds and, to Iron's horror he saw Gabriel lift his right hand, free of it's shackles, which fell to the ground with a dull thud. 

"My Angel," The True wielder continued, "Is Trustworthiness," a clang, sparks, and she freed his left hand. "My Angel is Comfort," clang, sparks, his right foot was free. "My Angel is Courage," clang, sparks, his left foot was free.

The only bond left was the iron collar around the boy's neck. The True Wielder paused for a moment and turned to Irons. "My Angel," she said passionately, "is Friendship," she said, raising her blade and bringing it down in a sweeping motion, as if she were going to cut off his head. A clang, louder than the last, rang through the space, echoing off walls that weren't there. It was so loud that Irons clasped his hands over his ears and the sparks that flew from the collision were so bright that the man had to close his eyes. When the echo died down and Kenneth dared to see and hear again, he saw Gabriel Bowman still bearing the signs of his ill treatment but free and standing besides Sara Pezzini, her blade still drawn. "Friendship is eternal, you Kenneth Irons, are not. You will die a horrible lonely death. All the years of your petty life, all your wealth and power, will mean nothing. But Friendship can't be killed, nor can it be possessed. After you die and are long forgotten, he will be reborn a thousand more times."

"You may have freed him," Irons said, spitefully, "But you know I can trap him again. If he really is eternal, then he's all the more worthy a prize."

The Angel looked, for a short moment, frightened, despite the presence of the True Wielder by his side. Irons smiled maliciously. "He knows it's true. As long as I can come into this realm we are all connected. You may have a weapon Sara, but he does not. My will is greater than his, he will fall to me."

"Angel," the True Wielder said simply as she garbed her sword by the blade and extended the hilt to him. "Take the sword."

"I, ah," the Angel stuttered, staring at the hilt. "I can't."

"You need to save yourself," the True Wielder, said with a voice so strong and commanding that the boy's eyes were drawn from the hilt of the sword up to her face. "I cannot to this for you. Please, Angel, take the sword."

The boy looked at the sword again and then, very cautiously, he lifted it off of her open hands. He put both hands on the hilt, looking at the bade in wonder for a moment before turning to look at Irons. "Get out of my head," he said simply, before swinging the sword like a baseball bat and neatly lobbing off Irons head. But before the arch of his swing finished, Irons form disappeared, swirling into mist and dissipating into the fog that surrounded them.

The boy staggered back a step, stunned at what he'd just done. His right hand let go of the blade and it fell to his left side, resting on its point.

"Thanks," the True Wielder said, stepping close to him and putting her hand on his shoulder. "You're needed."

And as she looked at her friend tears started trickling out of his eyes. He kept trying to say something, but words seemed to get caught in his throat. "Come here, Angel," she said softly, stepping forward herself and wrapping her arms around him. "Shhhh, shhhh, it's ok. It's all gonna be ok."

* * * 

Maddie was staring to worry Conchobar. She hadn't been a chatterbox before, but she'd certainly been willing to engage in conversation. But as they drove to St. John's hospital the girl did little more than mutter as a response to his attempts to draw her out. In essence, he was talking to himself, but if he let off the car was filled with an ominous silence that seemed, to the singer, to be a sure sign of grief and bad luck.

"Sara's with him," Conchobar said. "An' she's amazin.' She said she could save 'im and, well, I'm not so sure she can't."

"Umm," was Maddie's only response.

"An the paramedics, they said he wasn't hurt tha' bad. Just losin' blood, which I guess 's easy enough to replace."

"Imm." 

"I, ah, I never liked givin' blood. I mean, I do it all the time but I just can' stand to see them stick that needle in my arm. I don't know, maybe that makes me a sissy. Ya think?"

"Mnnn."

"I see," Conchobar said. "You ever give blood?"

"Yaaah,"

"Tha's good, 'cause, you know, it helps people."

She didn't say anything.

Conchobar was about to ask her if she knew directions to St. Johns. He knew how to get there but he figured that she would have to actually say something if he asked for directions. Even if she didn't know the way she'd still have to tell him so, which would require two clearly articulated words at least. He was saved from that by a phone ringing.

"Hey!" he said, somewhat excited. "Could'ja get tha'?"

"Whee?" She muttered, looking around. It seemed like she was coming out of a dazze.

"On the dashboard," he said, taking his right hand off the wheel for a moment so he could point at it. "I's Sara's phone. Might be her partner's callin'."

Maddie nodded and unfolded the phone very carefully. "Hello?" she said softly, holding it to her ears with both hands, as if she were afraid she'd drop it.

"Pez, is that you?" a male voice Maddie couldn't place demanded.

"Are you calling for Sara?"

"Yeah," the man sounded very confused. "This the right number?"

"Sara's in the ambulance." 

"Ambulance, what . . . Is she alright?"

Maddie paused, "I don't know."

"Who is this?"

"Maddie."

"Who?"

"Medea Cafaro."

"Hello," a different male voice said. Maybe the voice was more distinctive, or maybe the fog was rolling back from the girls brain, but this one sounded familiar, although she could not have placed it to save her life.

"Hello."

"Who is this?"

"Medea Cafaro."

"Why do you have Sara's phone?"

"It was on the dash board."

Conchobar, hearing only half the conversation, was slightly more confused than those participating in it. "Maddie," he said. "Ask them who they are."

"Who are you?"

"This is Danny Woo? Is that Conchobar with you?"

The girl ignored Danny's question. She turned to Conchobar. "He said he's Danny Woo."

"Right," the singer said. "Then, ah, tell 'im tha' Gabriel's hurt an' Sara an' we are goin' to St. John's hospital."

"Hello?" Maddie said again, as her attention returned to the phone.

"Hey!" Danny said. "I heard all that. St. John's, right?"

"Um, Saint John was beheaded."

"Right . . ." Danny said, a little uncertainly.  
"Better give me the phone," Conchobar said, reaching over and pulling the instrument away from the girl. "'Ello?"

"Conchobar, is that you?" Danny asked.

"Yeah, sorry, I'm just tryin' ta follow an ambulance ta St. John's an' . . ."

"No, it's ok," Danny insisted. "We'll meet you there, we have some news for Sara."

* * *

"Get off him!" Leonard said pushing Sara forcefully away from Gabriel's body. The detective gasped as she suddenly realized where she was and what was going on. In front of her the paramedic was prepping the paddles to restart Gabriel's heart, which had stopped according to a straight green line running across a screen to her right and an unwavering tone that filled the ambulance's small cab. 

Now that Sara had separated herself from the patient, Leonard was setting the paddles to the right amount of electricity. This was, after all, a very tricky situation. His heart needed to beat, but not too strongly, they needed as much blood in him as possible. In the few seconds it took him to figure out what he was doing, Sara slipped the Witchblade off the boy's wrist and back onto hers. Leonard turned shouted "Clear" and sent jolts of electricity through the boy's body. Just like on TV, Gabriel's body shook as the voltage surged through him. But unlike on TV, the only change wasn't the return of a squiggle in the green line on the monitor, and the reassuring repetitive beeps that signified a beating heart. This was far more dramatic. 

Gabriel gasped, his eyes shot open, his hand's griped the edges of his stretcher and he managed to choke out "Sara!"

Leonard practically screamed.

"Hey, Angel," Sara said, leaning over his body again and petting his face. "Welcome back."

"Where are we?" Gabriel asked. His beautiful, soft brown eyes were filled with confusion and their edges twitched with pain. 

"Detective, Mam, get off of him," Leonard said again, pushing Sara away. Sara complied, she was too overjoyed to fight him. Gabriel was alive, he was awake, but most importantly he was himself.

"Sara?" Gabriel asked, craning his head and endeavoring to push himself up to a sitting position. 

Leonard wouldn't have it, he pushed the boy back down fiercely. "Don't move," he ordered. "You're too . . . badly . . ." His voice trailed off as he examined the boy and discovered no visible injuries. The gaping hole in his chest seemed to have vanished, all that was left were the stains on his blood-soaked cloths. "Are you hurt?"

"I kinda tingle all over," Gabriel said. "Pins and needles."

"That's probably a result of Leonard here jumpstarting your heart," Sara offered helpfully.

"Where am I?" the boy asked again.

"Leo," the female paramedic said, opening the window that separated the cab of the ambulance from the back. "What the hells goin' on back there."

"I, ah," Leo stuttered. "The kid's better."

"You got his heart started?" She asked.

"Yeah, but, uh . . . the wound, it's, um, it's gone."

"What do you mean the wound is gone?!"

"This kid, far as I can see, he's fine. Not hurt."

"Sara," Gabriel said, "What's going on?"

"Don't worry sweetie," Sara cooed. "Everything's gonna be just fine." 

* * *

Irons gasped and sat up. His eyes were afire with hatred and his hands were clenched in fists.

"Where are they?" he demanded sharply.

"Where are who, master?" Ian asked tentatively. He'd never seen his father so upset. Irons was the bastion of cool, collected reason. He never flew into rages or petty bouts of any emotion. Emotion was weakness, he'd taught Ian that as a boy, and had lived the model, emotion free life. And yet here he was, overcome with furry, all-but foaming at the mouth.

"The Bitch and her little pup," Irons spit. "Sara Pezzini and Gabriel Bowman, who do you think?"

"Their ambulance has just arrived at the hospital, Master," Ian said cautiously. He wanted to defend Sara, assert that she was not, in any way, a bitch. But he never wanted to contradict his master, least of all when he was in such a foul humor.

"How far are we from them?"

"Close, Master. We are at St. John's hospital."  
"Then why are we sitting here," Irons demanded, pushing himself upright and opening his door. Ian quickly opened his own door and jogged around the black sedan. Never, not once before, had Ian known his master to open his own car door. This boded ill.

"Let me help you," Ian said as he ran around the side of the car, but Irons did not acknowledge him. Instead the CEO of Vorschlag Industries ran across the very busy street, ignoring the cars causing a few very near accidents. Ian watched his heart in his throat, terrified that his Master's life would end suddenly and unceremoniously on that street. 

Fate was with Kenneth Irons though, he reached the other side. Ian ran to keep up with his master, and by the time he reached the far side of the street Irons had already found the entrance to the ER and was watching as a group of paramedics wheeled Gabriel Bowman into the building with Sara Pezzini following closely.

"Ian," Irons said, his voice was once again calm and collected. "I presume you have a gun with you."

"Of course Master," Ian said, he didn't like where this question would lead. "I always carry a weapon for your protection."

"Give it to me."

"But, Sir . . ."

"Ian, you were not raised to question my orders, give me the gun."

"Yes sir," Ian said, reaching into the recesses of his dark overcoat and pulling out a heavy black pistol. Ian couldn't quite keep his hands from shaking as he offered it to Irons.

"Yes," the older man said slowly, drawling out the word out and savoring it. "This will suit my purpose."

He stuck the pistol in the waist of his pants and folded his perfectly tailored suit jacket over it. There was a slight bulge that seemed horribly obvious to Ian but which, he figured, no other person would think to notice. 

"Now," Irons said, taking a deep breath and smoothing back his hair so that he looked completely composed and unquestionably respectable, "Let us see how fairs our young Mr. Bowman."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

(PLEASE REVIEW)


	9. Apotheosis

****

Apotheosis  


"I'm no' askin' for a doctor," Conchobar tried to explain to the nurse behind the desk at St. John's ER. "I just want a band-aid. I'd'a fixed 'er up meself, only we had ta hurry here followin' an ambulance," Conchobar glanced behind him towards Maddie, who was pressing her right hand up against her still-bleeding chin and hugging herself with her left hand.

"That's an awful lot of blood," The nurse said. "She'll probably need stitches."

"Ah," Conchobar said uncertainly, "Well, I din' really mean ta take her to the ER."

"She looks like she might be in shock," the nurse said seriously.

"We both know a doctor won't bother ta see her for several hours," Conchobar said frankly. "Can't cha' jus' give me a Band-Aid an' a blanket for 'er?"

"You said you followed an ambulance?"

"Aye."

"You'll be here for a while. You can wait for a doctor."

And wait they did, for nearly two hours. There was no sign of Sara, no word about Gabriel, just a mentally ill man muttering to himself and an annoying Olson-Twins movie on the TV hanging from the ceiling. Finally, a doctor took Maddie away and Conchobar was waiting alone. This provided time for him to think about all that had happened to him that day, from the moment he'd woken, with Sara's somewhat frustrated visage hovering over him, to his present situation, sitting in an ER alone, waiting on two people he'd meet less than twelve hours ago. It certainly seemed odd. And as with most situations in his life that he couldn't quite understand, he started composing a song about it. 

"_I woke up this mornin' with blood on my hands_

I wish I could say who was bleedin'

The night was dark, the shadows long

The battle raged on and on,

And all the casualties have gone on

So with these crimson hands I'm prayin'" He muttered to himself, getting the sense for what the verses should be about, trying different rhythms, substituting some words for others, letting a melody emerge, listening for a harmony that would eventually be there. 

"Hey that sounds pretty nice," the friendly voice of Danny Woo said from over his shoulder. Conchobar turned, infinitely relived to see a smiling face. "Don't let us interrupt you."

"Is tha' Chinese food I smell?" Conchobar said, lustfully eyeing a brown paper bag Jake was carrying.

"Uh, yeah," Jake said. "Sara called, asked us to pick some stuff up. Figured you might be hungry."

"You've heard from Sara?" Conchobar asked, feeling a little jealous.

"Yeah," Danny said, sitting down next to the Irishman in a relatively uncomfortable molded plastic chair. "She wanted us to tell you that she's sorry she couldn't come out and talk to you, but the doctors said if she left they wouldn't let her back in."  
"She could'a called," Conchobar said, trying not to sound as hurt as he was. 

"Nah," Jake said as he dug through his delicious smelling bag. "You've got a cell phone and that messes up the equipment in a hospital or something."

"'Course," Conchobar muttered. "I hope you brought forks for tha.'"

"You don't know how to use chop sticks?" Danny asked, mock horror on his face. 

"I come from Ireland where the meal is to settle our stomachs between rounds of beer," Conchobar said with a coy smile, "If eating involved any more than the smallest amount of hand-eye coordination the entire country would starve."

The three men laughed and dug in to the moo-goo gy-pan and pork fried rice. Another hour passed infinitely more pleasantly than the previous ones. Maddie appeared shortly, a rather large white bandage conspicuously placed where the neck meets the chin. Her eyes were slightly more focused and instead of being dazed she just looked uncomfortable. 

"Feelin' better darlin?" Conchobar asked, offering her an egg role, which she took gratefully.

"I don't think I'm gonna feel better for a very long time," the girl said. It was good to hear her speak in complete, coherent sentences, even if her voice was shaking.

"What is she doing here?" Jake asked, clearly dumbfounded. Danny had come to the conclusion that Jake was not a cunning FBI agent who had been pretending to be a scatterbrained-surfer-dude, but rather a scatterbrained-surfer-dude who just happened to be an FBI agent. 

"I have blood all over my dress and a bandage on my face," Maddie said, not bothering to look towards Jake. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"And where did you learn English so well?" Jake continued, ignoring his first question and her answer. 

"Chicago."  
"Chicago?"

"Yes, where I was born and raised."

"Well," Jake said, absolutely baffled. "Where did you learn Bulgarian?"

"From a book mostly. I'm something of an autodidact."

Jake stopped asking questions. 

"You know," Danny said, leaning towards the young girl. "We never did get your name."

"Medea Cafaro."

"And your Gabriel's girlfriend, I take it."

"What gave you that impression?"

"I deduced it from your tone of voice and extensive vocabulary."

"But the fact you saw me at his apartment at 4 a.m. didn't hurt, did it?"

"It wasn't a clue I was going to mention in mixed company."

Maddie laughed, just a little, then turned to Conchobar, "Gabriel's not dead, is he?"

"I, ah," The Irishman said nervously. "I don' know."

Her dark brown eyes turned to Jake and Danny.

Jake just shrugged and held up his hands, as if in surrender. "This Baxter case has got me so confused. I'm glad I'm off it."

"The Baxter case is solved," Sara said, walking up behind her two partners. "And don't worry, Gabriel's not dead. He's not a murderer either." She leaned over Jake to look into the brown paper bag that had been emptied of its continents a while ago. "You left a fortune cookie for me, didn't you?"

"Gra mo chrio," Conchobar said, pushing himself out of the chair, past Woo and McCarty, and wrapping his arms around his wife. Before she could even say, "Hey Baby," he was kissing her. The kind of kiss that happens only when there is enough adrenaline and longing in a body to need a passionate kiss, but enough sense and self-awareness to savor it. It didn't happen, it was crafted; an artists kiss. When he pulled away he left Sara breathless. "I was so worried."

"I'm sorry," Sara stuttered, "It's been a crazy day."

"I noticed," he said, kissing her on the forehead. 

"Hey, hey," Jake interjected, yanking the lovers out of their privet world. "Get a room."

Sara sighed and turned around, "So what's the word on the White Bulls?"

"Oh Sara," Jake said, "You should'a been there. It was beautiful. Charlene was able to finger Orlinsky, like you said, plus about ten other guys. Turns out McQueen was giving out payments in kind as well as cash. Plus about half the bulls we've taken in are tripping over themselves to turn states evidence."

"Yeah," Danny observed coolly. "Who'd a guessed that a group of profiteers would abandon the cause to save themselves."

"Wha's all this about?" Conchobar asked curiously.

"Trust me, Sweetie, you'll find out soon enough," Sara said, before turning back to Jake and Danny, "You guys need me for anything more with this today?"

"Are you asking for permission to go home?" Danny asked with a sly smile.

"Please teacher," Sara said with a false pout. "I've been really good. Did all my homework."

"Really," Danny asked. "Then let's see it. What you got on the Baxter case?" 

"It's a frame up," Sara said simply. "A very elaborate frame up played out by Kenneth Irons to get to me."

Jake looked at Sara critically. "Points off for paranoia." 

"Kenneth Irons has wanted to control me since . . ." She looked at the expectant eyes around her. There was so much she'd have to explain. She sighed and hoped they'd give up. "Well, for a while."

"Pez, no offence, but why would a multi-millionaire want to control you," Danny asked, a very reasonable amount of confusion in his voice.

"It's a long story," Sara said quickly, as if talking fast would help her friends get past this huge jump in logic. "It has to do with the fact I was adopted and my real mother . . . It's not really important right now. What _is_ important," she said before anyone could point out that if they were going to build a case, Irons motives would have to be clear and convincing, "is that Gabriel was kidnapped, held hostage, so that Irons could construct this murder. He planed it so that it would be the first thing on my plate when I got back from my honeymoon and he gave me so many blatant clues that I could only come to one conclusion."

"How would he know that you'd be assigned the murder?" Danny asked.

Without knowing how she knew, she answered, "He told Dante to give it to me."

"Irons," Jake said. "And Dante?"

"Someone has to bankroll the bulls Jake," Sara said. "Engraved bullets don't come cheep."

"Ok, ok," Danny said, "Assuming that Kenneth Irons is your real father or whatever . . ."

"He is NOT my father," Sara said passionately. "I never said . . ."

"Sorry, sorry," Danny quickly said, holding up his hands to prove he was defenseless. "So Irons is obsessed with you. He goes to extreme lengths to frame your friend while you're not around to what end?"

"To kill me."

"What?" Jake said.

"Conchobar, Maddie, you were witnesses," Sara said, turning to the pair who had, hither-to, been intrigued by the conversation but had assumed they were not part of it. "Didn't Irons try to kill me. Isn't that how Gabriel got hurt?"

The dawn of recognition and understanding lit in Conchobar's eyes. "That's right," he said, then turning to Jake and Danny, he filled in the blanks. "Sara told me that she was gonna go over ta Gabriel's an' I had Maddie here with me, so I figure'd we could met 'er there. When we got there, though, Irons was waitin' an' he grabbed Medea an' held her hostage. I's how she got cut."

"Is that right, Medea?" Danny asked, somewhat professionally. He wasn't trying to be a homicide detective interviewing an important witness, he just couldn't help it.

"It's all more or less blurred," the girl said, her gaze shifting from Sara to Conchobar and finally returning to Danny. "I really can only clearly remember two things. His eyes were ice blue, cold, frightening, and his hand had a scar, two circles overlapping," She traced it in the air with her finger. "Like a ven diagram."  
Sara smiled, that evidence alone was enough to shift suspicion to Irons. There were, of course, a lot of hard questions that wouldn't really be able to be answered. Still, shifting suspicion was a major step in the right direction. "Sounds like a positive ID to me."

"I don't know, Sara," Danny said. "I mean, I trust you, but it just seems so . . . far fetched."

"It's what happened Danny," Sara said solidly. "You know that for the past couple of months, since Irons came into our lives I might add, all reason and logic has been thrown out the window."

Jake glanced over to Danny, "She has a point."

And even Danny had to concede. She did.

* * *

"As far as we can tell, Mr. Bowman, you are in perfect health."

"Good," Gabriel said, not really sure what else there was to say. He certainly felt healthy. Granted, mer hours earlier a mythic blade had been shoved through his chest and, narrowly missing heart and lungs while still generally reeking havoc on his internal organs. But all that had been fixed, somehow. Gabriel didn't know and he wasn't about to ask questions. He was alive, he was free, he was going to count his blessings and enjoy the control he suddenly had over his life.

"Just one more person has to see you," the doctor said, looking intently at the chart which, Gabriel imagined, must have been very confusing. "So just sit tight and he'll be in in a minuet."

"Great," Gabriel said. The doctor turned to leave, "Oh, hey," Gabriel interjected, stopping the Doctor in his tracks. "I don't suppose I could get a shirt or something? I think mine got incinerated."

"Ah," the doctor said, hesitating. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks," Gabriel said as the doctor left.

He rubbed the top of his right hand, feeling how smooth it was, enjoying immensely the fact that the odd double-circle scar had disappeared, as he whistled a few bars of a song that was stuck in his head, "Time after Time" by Cindy Lauper. It wasn't a particular favorite of his, but he couldn't help but feel like it was appropriate to the situation, although exactly why he wasn't sure. His memory of what had really happened, how he'd been mysteriously healed by the Witchblade, was shaky at best. He knew he'd killed Kenneth Irons, chopped his head off but at the same time he knew, without a doubt, that he had not really beheaded anyone. He was going to have to ask Sara what had really happened. He hoped she'd tell him.

The door the doctor had just walked out of opened and Gabriel leaned forward eager to get this one last person satisfied that he was healthy, happy and ready to get the hell out of there.

Kenneth Irons walked through the door.

Gabriel's heart stopped.

"You're not a doctor."

"You are correct, Mr. Bowman," Irons said with a wicked smile behind his eyes.

"You're not allowed here."  
"Over the years I've donated over three million dollars to this hospital," Irons said. "I'm allowed everywhere." 

"What are you going to do?"

"I think I might kill you," the billionaire said, reaching into his suite jacket and pulling out a very large gun. "But not just yet. Stand up if you please."

"I'm sick of doing what you want."

"You forget boy that I have a gun."

"You can't shoot me, not here. The doctors know you're in here."

"Problems for a pedestrian mind."

Gabriel licked his lips and turned his head. Irons was serious, and he was rich, and he was nuts, and he was evil. Unless something happened, Gabriel was dead. There was another door leading to the next examination room to his left and slightly behind him. Maybe, if he was able to role backwards over the examination table he was sitting on and stayed low . . .

"I wouldn't try and escape if I were you," Irons said, as if he could read the boy's thoughts. "You still have hope of salvation. Sara will quickly learn where I am, and she will come."

"So that's what this is all about, Sara?" Gabriel asked casually, as if they were discussing the history of one of the reare artifacts in the Boy's warehouse, not his life. "If you can't have me, nobody will?"

"I am not a man who enjoys being told his place by children," Irons said, taking a step forward, keeping his gun level. 

"Look, I never . . ."

"You've worn the Witchblade," Irons said, glancing at a recent and distinctive scar, two overlapping circles, which had appeared on the center of the boy's chest, presumably where the blade had impaled him. It was the only evidence that the injury had happened.

"Is that what it means?" Gabriel said, putting his hand over the scar. He wished he had a shirt on. 

"The Witchblade leaves this mark on every man who's bold enough to wear it. Did Sara give you the blade, or did you take it."

"What do you think?"

"She saved your life."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"I assure you Mr. Bowman," Irons said, leveling the gun to Gabriel's throat, placing the cool steel of the barrel right on the boy's Adam's Apple. "It will be the last."

* * *

"Lady Sara," Ian Nottingham said. No one had seen or heard him approach. Everyone jumped.

"God, Nottingham," Sara said angrily. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Mister Irons request's your presence."

"This's Ian Nottingham?" Conchobar asked, eyeing the dark interloper suspiciously. Jake and Danny were doing the same. 

"You can tell Irons to go to hell, the sooner the better."

"You ought to give him that message yourself. He is just yonder."

"Yonder?" Sara asked.

"In the ER, room eleven, with your friend Gabriel."

"God," Sara gasped. She pushed past Nottingham, climbed over a set of unused chairs and rushed the nurse guarding the entrance to the ER proper. Danny and Conchobar followed. They were panicked because Sara was so panicked. Jake and Maddie brought the rear. Ian didn't move.

"NYPD, we need to get in," Sara said, flashing her badge.

The nurse reached for a clipboard "You'll have to sign . . ." 

"No time," Sara said, pushing her way past the nurse, Danny and Conchobar were on her heals. Jake and Maddie, on the other hand, were just a little too slow. The nurse, who was about fifty years old and as solidly built as any woman Jake had ever seen, placed herself in front of them. Her stance effectively communicated, no one enters without signing in, and Jake just didn't have the conviction to argue with her.

* * *

"Did you like watching the world as it passed you by?" Irons asked. "Seeing and hearing everything, but not being able to touch it, to make your voice heard?"

"Ah," Gabriel said, licking his lips, "Not particularly."

"I wonder, sometimes, if that would be a fate worse than death."

"What are you gonna do?" 

"A bullet through the neck will puncture your trachea, rip through your vocal cords and shatter your spine around the third or fourth cervical vertebrae."  
"So it'll kill me."

"If we were alone, yes, it most likely would. But we are mere feet away from the finest triage physicians in the city. I have no doubt they would be able to give you a tracheotomy and save your life, but you would never again converse on the matter of the Witchblade with the lovely Sara, never stroll through your storeroom examining the eccentric and exotic wares, never move your hands across the decidedly unromantic surface of a computer keyboard. In short, young Gabriel, you will see and hear everything, but be unable to touch the world or make your voice heard. You will be trapped permanently in the prison of your own mind."

"At least I won't have any pushy cell mates," Gabriel said defiantly.

That's when Sara busted in, "Irons!" she shouted, advancing on him with murder in her eyes. 

"Sara!" Gabriel shouted, at exactly the same time, relief in his eyes.

"I wouldn't move any closer," Irons said, his voice was cold and hard, he was relishing the situation. He didn't bother to look behind him to see if she had her gun or the Witchblade drawn. It didn't concern him. He had Gabriel Bowman, that was what mattered. "This gun has a hair trigger, Sara, one false move from you and your friend here becomes about as interactive as a lawn gnome."

"Irons put the gun down."

"It's not fair, Sara, not fair at all."

"Your right," Sara spat, "you've got a gun and he doesn't."

"I have planed, manipulated, schemed, done all in my power to prolong my life and this simple ignorant boy is immortal."

"No I'm not," Gabriel said, mystified.

"No one's immortal," Sara said, her voice steady and hard. "He's died a thousand times."

"Only to be born a thousand and one," Irons said. "If I have to die, the least he can do is long to join me."

"You won't get away with this," Sara said. "There are witnesses who won't be bought off."

"There are other ways to silence a witness."

"Don't," Danny said forcefully. "Don't do it!"

"I will not be denied my most elegant Revenge," Irons said with relish.

Then, for Sara all the color seemed to drain out of the world as time slowed, events unfolded neatly and in order and at a regulated pace. She heard a bang, and thought, for a second, that it was quieter than it should have been, considering Irons gun did not have a silencer on it. But then she saw what appeared to be an explosion of glass shards on the right side of the room. There was a door there that she hadn't seen, a door with a window her shooter could aim through. She watched a spiraling bullet cut its way through the air, and then she saw Irons fall backwards dramatically in slow motion as the small mettle projectile board its way through his body. She heard Maddie scream, high pitched and full of terror and surprise. She heard a sort of gurgling sound come out of Irons before he hit the ground there was a whole on the right side of his chest.

And then time started.

While everyone was still too shocked by what had just happened to move, the door that had just gotten it's window shot out opened and Jakes head appeared, "You all right man?" he asked Gabriel.

"Ahh," the boy stuttered, blinking, "Yeah,"

"Jake!" Danny yelled, running to the rookie absolutely furious. "What the hell'd you just do?!"

"What was that!" a nurse yelled, pushing her way past Danny and Sara, who had yet to get over the shock of seeing Irons die. "Oh God! Doctor, Doctor!" 

A second later two doctors and a host of nurses as well as security officers rushed into the room. The doctors garbed Irons body and laid him on the ground, starting CPR desperately. The Nurses shoed them all away, the security officers took them all into custody. 

* * * EPILOG * * *

Sara opened the door to the hospital security office. This had been, without question, the longest day she could remember. She was exhausted but, oddly, at total peace with herself. She felt like the boogie-men that had been hovering over her shoulder since she got the Witchblade had vanished, like someone opened her closet door and turned on the light. She felt, oddly, that old business was done with, like she could start moving forward. She hadn't realized it, but in retrospect the past few months had seemed like a re-do, like she was granted some time to fix her mistakes before she moved on.

As she entered the poorly lit room the conversation she could barely hear through the door stopped. Three stets of eyes stared at her and Sara wanted to sit down with each of those sets and explain everything. And she would, eventually, but not now.

"Ok you trouble-makers, you're free to go."

"Go?" Gabriel asked, leaning forward. His hand was intertwined with Maddie's, and as he leaned forward she seemed to almost hold him back, like she was afraid Sara would spirit him away and she'd never be able to hold his hand again. This was, Sara reasoned, a fair enough fear given the days events. "As in leave?"

"Exit," Sara provided, "depart and withdraw."

"Wha' abou' the shottin'?" Conchobar asked. "Don' they need us fer questionin'?"

"Maybe later," Sara sighed. "When two Homicide Detectives and a FBI agent agree on events civilian testimony is rarely necessary."

"Wait," Gabriel said. "Who's the fed?"

"Jake."

"You're kidding," Gabriel said.

"Nope."

"Jake McCarty?"

"He saved your life Gabriel," Sara said. "Be a little grateful,"

"Oh, greatful I am," Gabriel said, "Gullible I'm not. Jake, he's so . . ."

"Callow," Medea supplied.

"Exactly."

"Be that as it may," Sara said. "His testimony is good as gold in this situation. He'll probably have to go though some investigation or something to make sure he had justifiable cause for shooting Irons. You'll all probably be interviewed for that. But that's something for tomorrow, now we can go home."

"Oh goodie," Gabriel said. "After a day like today I wondered what I could do tomorrow."

"Hey," Sara snapped, "None of that. I almost killed you today, don't think I won't finish the job."

Gabriel laughed and smiled and looked away. "Damn I missed you."

"I missed you too, sweetie," Sara said.

That's when Conchobar cleared his throat. Sara turned to him. "Yes man-who-I-love-more-than-anything-else-in-the-world?"

"Can I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"What exactly did happen today, when you almost killed Gabriel?"  
"He charged me," Sara said, "I defended myself."

"No' that part," Conchobar insisted. "The part where your bracelet turned into armor and spikes."

Sara glanced around, everyone's eyes were very intent on her, they all had seen, they all wanted answers. "Oh, you saw that did you."

"No, I made it up," Conchobar said sarcastically.

"Jeez," Maddie muttered. "How could we miss it?"

"I'm sorry," Sara stuttered. "It's just ... nobody ever sees what this thing does, they just see the results, if they're still alive."

"Well, yeah," Conchobar said a little uncomfortably. "I saw it and I'm alive. So why don't you tell me what exactly _that_ is."

Sara's left hand drifted to the Witchblade she was tempted to take it off, to show it to him and say it was nothing. But then, that was a lie. "Gabriel?" She asked, looking at the younger man for help."

"It's called the Witchblade and everything, and I mean everything in our lives revolves around it."

"Pyubvnik," Maddie said, "That sounds a little crazy."

"It's a weapon like none other," Gabriel continued. "It chooses a wearer and, ah, changes the world."

"You make it sound like this bracelet has a will a it's own," Conchobar said suspiciously.

"It might," Gabriel said, shrugging.

"So, when you say everything, you mean this situation, you and the murder, and your eyes, and . . ."

"Yes," Sara interrupted, "It was about the Witchblade. Kenneth Irons was obsessed with it, which means he was obsessed with me. He used Gabriel to get close to it."

"An' now he's dead," Conchobar said firmly.

"And now he's dead," Sara nodded. 

"Well then," Gabriel said, "I guess this is a happy ending."

"You bet," Sara nodded, taking Conchobar's hand and weaving her fingers through his. "Happily Ever after."

****

THE VERY END!!!!

I hope you all enjoyed this. I just wanted to say THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed. You seriously made my day each time. And also, please don't ask for a sequel, there won't be one. The point was to bring closure, no use reopening it. -- Harri


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